What Will Be
by hazeleyes571
Summary: Could you pinpoint a moment in time that changed the way you thought about love and happiness? Four people ponder their lives and their loves.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Foyle's War is a copyright product not owned by me or mine. Characters used without permission, but no infringement is intended and no profit made.

Author: hazeleyes57

Rating: K or U depending on where you are.

Pairing: Sam and Foyle

A/N: A Foyle/Sam fic. The tale is told mainly from the point of view of a character called Lily. This fic is an experiment, so please persevere if at first you're not sure where it's going. If you really like/hate it, feel free to comment.

**What will be.**

I never know where to start a story. I have the urge to begin in the middle; it's getting interesting and you want to read on. Trouble is, then you have to go back with flashbacks and have a Mister Exposition character. How I got here, by blah blah blah.

My name is not 'blah', by the way. For the sake of anonymity, my name is Lily. It's a name I've always liked.

I'm a history buff; I love looking back at the past with knowing eyes. Seeing how things change and evolve into something that is still used today, or vanish completely. I'm ideally suited to my job; I love the research, the detective work, and the discoveries. If sometimes I hanker after a past that I have never lived, a time I've never known, well, that's life.

My life started in 2169. I should have preferred 2170, but some things haven't changed and babies still arrive early, much to my parents' surprise. I had an uneventful childhood, the arrival of a couple of siblings not too traumatic, education, further education, and then the career selection. I'm a voracious reader and love to pass on what I've learned, so I assumed that I'd be a teacher. The Selector (which is never wrong) picked me out for Temporal Correction.

Of course, my parents were terribly proud, who wouldn't be? But I was just stunned. What were they thinking?

No-one seemed to realise that a mistake had occurred, so I was duly packed off to train. Law, Temporal Law, Temporal tampering (how to recognise it – laptop in the Neolithic age, anyone?), survival techniques, hand to hand combat, loads of historical facts (history is written by the winners in any conflict, and sometimes they are not the most accurate portrayers of events). Six years later I became a Field Agent Assistant (sorry, Field Agent Support Officer – they keep changing titles for the sake of it – bureaucracy is the only immutable in time). That means that I support the Field Agent by giving them all the historical data they need to fix the event. I do the research and hand it over; the FA does the job and comes home. Everyone is happy.

More time passed (sorry – one of our in-jokes), and I progressed up the ranks until I got to the point where I had to decide to go with the Field, or with Admin. Nearly everyone wants to be in the Field; it's more glamorous. I guess you'd equate them with movie stars or football heroes of the past. It's much better paid, but there is more risk; we do lose one occasionally. Admin is safer, far less glamorous, and not so well paid, which I think is unfair, as we do have to do the retrieval, but there you go.

After more screening, my tests indicated a Field Agent career killer; a squeamishness that would let me down under certain circumstances – I found it difficult (ok, impossible) to kill someone in the course of restoring the timeline. It's all very well to kill the baddie to save the world, but sometimes you have to let the 'good' die to put things back on track.

So, it was Admin for me, and I was reasonably happy with that. Life moved on until one day, quite out of the blue, that same life changed completely.

A letter arrived in our section at work.

People rarely send letters these days. Everything is electronic, especially with the neural net interface, but some people still put pen to paper, usually for sentimental or ornamental reasons. It is prohibitively expensive.

The arrival of a letter is an Event.

The Chief (my boss) was at lunch. I'm the Deputy Chief, I have a Researcher, Zak, an Assistant Researcher (yeah, they changed the name again) Lena, an Engineer, Mike, and two Field Agents, both called Chris (Christine and Christopher), which causes the occasional confusion. The six of us were just prepping to send the Chrisses off, when the letter arrived.

The letter was clearly very old; the faded ink stamp appeared to be dated 1940, but it was difficult to read. It was addressed to Zak, at this section, Lab, Floor, Building, and City, with 'to be delivered' on today's date and time.

Holding the letter, Zak looked at me with a sick expression. My stomach turned to ice. I looked at the gang and they all wore identical, almost comical, expressions of dismay. When we get letters from the past, it's usually because something has gone wrong and this is the only way to find out what and why, and how to fix it. Sometimes it means our Field Agent is compromised, or worse, dead. I automatically looked at the Chrisses, just to reassure myself that they were still okay.

I turned back to Zak.

"Better open it."

"It's your handwriting, Lily. _You_ wrote this."

"What? That can't be right; I'm not in the field."

I looked over his shoulder at the sloping cursive script; yep, that was my scrawl alright.

"Well, it's addressed to you; let's see what I have to say."

Zak handled the letter carefully, almost reverently, before slitting it along the top edge. He took out the sheets of paper and opened them. Everyone, myself included, crowded round his desk. Lena grumbled.

"Read it out Zak, I can't see."

"It's headed 'Hastings' and dated 1940."

Zak cleared his throat and began reading aloud.

"_Dear Zak,_

_Hi guys; you should see your faces. To me, here and now, I remember you all looking gobsmacked (I love that expression, so twentieth century)."_

They all looked at me. They knew my penchant for unusual expressions. I hid my grin and tried to sound innocent.

"What?"

They shook their heads and returned to Zak.

"_If you are reading this, then it worked, and I exist. Yeah, it's one of _those _paradoxes."_

We all groaned, including me.

"_Zak, I need you to pull up everything you can find out about a policeman called Christopher Foyle, and a woman called Samantha Stewart, the daughter of a vicar. She was born about the 1920's; he was born about twenty or so years earlier, maybe the late 1890's. It's really difficult to judge their ages here, they all look a lot older than I'm used to seeing. Compared to the others here, I look about thirty five, nothing like my actual age. I'm in Hastings, it still exists today."_

One of the first rules you learn in the Field, is no inadvertent information alluding to the future.

"_The Second World War is raging around my head as I write. As far as I am able to tell, something prevented Samantha and Foyle from getting together. I discovered the anomaly when I was doing the B and A check after this morning's outing. Something happened – or didn't happen – this month and they never married. It's a related issue."_

They all knew as well as I did that 'related issue' was code for 'these people are my ancestors, for Chrissake fix this so I can live'.

My hands started to sweat and I muttered under my breath.

"_Oh shit_."

It's company policy that each section is not supposed to complete missions in their own team's timelines, to avoid just such an occurrence. We've all had our own lines traced when we began working here.

"_You should get this letter just prior to the check."_

They all looked at me.

I shrugged uncomfortably.

"I was just about to do the before and after timeline check when the letter arrived."

I looked at the big timepiece on the wall of the office and deliberately made a note of the time, knocking off two minutes.

Zak looked up again.

"Y'know, this is still creepy. After all the time I've worked here, you'd think I'd be used to this sort of thing."

I patted his shoulder.

"Thankfully it doesn't happen very often. What else is there in the letter?"

"_Samantha has just been bombed out of her accommodation and has nowhere to stay, or at least, I haven't been able to find out where she's staying at the moment. Sgt Milner offered her his spare room, but his first wife came back early; I think there must have been a bit of a domestic and he's looking a bit henpecked today. Anyway, I arrived here on the 5__th__, safe and sound, my papers intact, and I look forward to seeing you again, probably at the end of the month, all will be sorted by then, one way or another."_

Either I'll still exist, or my whole family line will be wiped out. I obviously addressed the letter to Zak in case I was not here.

I sighed.

This is why Temporal Correction can be a nightmare. There must have been a reason why I didn't send the letter to arrive yesterday, before one of the Chrisses buggered up the timeline and started this ball rolling. I turned to both of our Field Agents.

"You two; your next mission is delayed. I've read your reports, so try to think what you may have missed, anything, _anything_ you think could be relevant. Zak, get on to the historical info angle and see what you can find out about Foyle and Stewart, Lena, you get started on the documentation, clothing and money for that time period."

They scrambled to do my bidding, knowing that any of them could have been put in this boat.

"What are you going to do now?"

Mike's question was sympathetic, but he couldn't hide his concern. That's unrequited love for you.

"Me? Oh, I'm off to ruin the Chief's lunch."

The Chief is a lovely person to socialise with; articulate, witty, snazzy dresser, nice bum, great fun to party with. He can, however, be a sod to work for. You would think the cost of every mission comes directly out of his pay. If you want to catch him at his best, come in under budget and don't mess with his lunch.

Double whammy this month, then. I found him downstairs in the atrium, eating Oriental, by the look of it.

"Afternoon Chief, sorry to disturb you -"

"Then don't. Go away."

I remained standing beside the table. Hid my grin at the Teriyaki sauce on his chin. I lowered my voice.

"We have a related issue."

The Chief blinked once. I think he might have sighed.

"Who?"

I could do succinct too.

"Me."

"When?"

"1940."

He looked up, and one eyebrow lifted.

"Coincidence? Your favourite time period, isn't it?"

I nodded. I managed to keep most of my excitement/dread confined. The Second World War had always been a favourite of mine; how we survived was a mystery to me. I often wondered if there was some tweaking going on by others; just how did we win when Hitler stood his ground right down to the last twelve year old gunner? Experiencing the past was the only reason a small part of me had wanted to be in the field instead of Admin.

The Chief ruminated silently for several moments. I felt an irrational need to hurry him; irrational because I could be inserted into any moment of the past, any little slot of time. We could dawdle here for days and it wouldn't make a difference, but I wanted to get back there, back then, with a sense of urgency that was almost tangible. My ancestors need me, get a wiggle on!

Eventually, an aeon or two later, he nodded once. We both knew that he didn't have any choice, but the niceties have to be observed.

"All right, go. But make sure there are no screw ups. Too much is at stake."

_Wowzat, I never knew he cared_.

It didn't occur to me until later that he wasn't as surprised as I thought he would be.

When I got back upstairs Mike informed me that he had already begun programming the insertion time into the Net on the basis that I was unlikely to be denied the need to fix my own line. What many people tend to forget is that we have to calculate the move both through time _and_ space; otherwise if you just move through time, Earth won't be in the same place in orbit around the sun. You'd arrive in a point in space where your destination would be if the planet was there. I know, boggles the mind, doesn't it?

Zak handed me a headset.

"Programmed with all the info I could find on 1930 to 2030. It'll take a minute and twenty three seconds; there was a hell of a lot going on back then."

Great. Now I was going to have a massive headache too. I preferred to get my knowledge the old fashioned way, but this would be quicker.

"Thanks, you're a star. That reminds me, I'd better get the 'before' and 'after' results back, see if we can narrow down the time frame."

I went back to my station and scrolled through the B and A. The comparison is examined after every mission, just to check that the new timeline has only been changed the way it had to be, and that there weren't any side effects. The trouble with temporal tampering is that there are always ripples, and we need to know that they aren't significant. Clearly, this was a rather large ripple.

Even after two read-throughs I was still none the wiser. I hate it when you have to fly blind during a mission.

Lena came back in carrying a suitcase appropriate for the time period, an outfit, a handbag, all my paperwork, and a letter of introduction, just in case I needed a reference.

"I've hidden most of the money in the suitcase, usual place, and left some in the bag. You're now Lily Davis, a librarian from Reading. I gave Zak a short history for you and he's included it in the 'set. I hope that's okay."

She handed me the clothes, looking a little nervous. She was still relatively new and this was her first paradox.

I smiled what I hoped was a reassuring smile and thanked her. I went over to one of the prep rooms and changed into my new outfit; the underwear was an experience; stockings and a garter belt! I far preferred my usual things, but we're not supposed to introduce anachronisms. A skirt, fitted blouse, cardigan and shoes. I left off the coat and scarf for now and lay down on the couch. As I hadn't done a non-training one of these on myself before, I called Zak in to monitor me.

As soon as he was ready I fitted the headset and tried to relax; Christine warned me that being tense made it worse. I debated whether or not to use a gum shield, but it would be a long session and where I was going, dentistry was basic at best. Once the shield was in place, I gave Zak a small resigned grin and activated the headset. For a long moment nothing appeared to happen, but then images and information started pouring into my mind. At first it was tolerable, but then everything suddenly sped up, the pictures tumbling over each other too fast for me to consciously take them in. Fortunately, you don't have to be conscious to absorb all the info.

I could feel my teeth clenching as the pain increased and each second seemed to last for an eternity. I think at one point I was begging to be knocked out, but then, thankfully, I passed out.

My hearing came back first and I could recognise the voices whispering. Over it all I heard Zak.

"Take it easy, Lily. You did just fine for a newbie. Relax and lie still for a moment, and don't worry, I have a bowl."

A bowl?

For what?

I turned my head to look at him and excruciating pain shot through my head.

I vomited.

Ah, so that's what the bowl was for.

I heard the soft hiss of a shot of Demsol and began to feel much better after a minute or so.

Once I started to feel more human, Zak, Lena and I tested the knowledge I had just acquired.

"My name is Lily Davis, a former librarian who hoped to be working as a volunteer at the local hospital…"

I rattled on for a minute or so, and then Zak quizzed me on salient events of World War Two. I could access all the information as if I'd known it forever.

Zak pronounced himself satisfied, and I got to my feet. The world spun for a moment, but quickly righted itself. Now all we had to do was try to pinpoint the moment it all went wrong, and try to do something about it. My other self had already left a clue, so 1940, here I come.

There was no need to 'put my affairs in order'. If I succeeded I would be back, and if I failed, I would never have existed. Good job I never got around to having children, I suppose.

There was no point dragging things out, so I collected my stuff and headed for the Containment chamber. Opening up a vortex in time wasn't just a trip across the city. Mike gave me a hug, looking anxious under his smile. I wondered for a moment what he knew about this trip that I did not. But I didn't ask.

The chamber was lit in blue. Don't ask me why, but I suspect the engineer geeks watch too much Sci-Fi. As if real life wasn't enough.

Contrary to popular myth, I will not arrive at my destination naked or unarmed. I'll have my clothes and my wits.

Lord help us all.

I climbed in the big chair and propped my bag on my stomach. I heard Zak's disembodied voice counting back from three and imagined him activating the jump. With Christine's last minute warnings ringing in my ears, I closed my eyes and breathed deep, trying to remember what she said about landing…

The next thing I was conscious of was falling on to my hands and knees on a hard, rough surface. A terrible screeching noise filled my head and my ears ached. Despite blurry vision, I could make out my case nearby, but I was too busy trying to stop my stomach from emptying itself again to get it.

The trip was exactly as Christine had described – like having your whole body squeezed through a bracelet. Then I recalled what she'd said about how many goes it took her to start landing on her feet. Well, it wasn't going to be a problem for me; I was _never_ going to do this ever again.

I suddenly realised that the horrible screeching had been a vehicle coming to an abrupt stop close by; very close by, in fact. By the time my scattered wits were gathered, car doors had opened and I could hear voices.

"My gosh! Are you all right? Are you hurt? I nearly didn't see you! Did you fall? Where did you come from? I could have sworn -"

A kind male voice interrupted the flow of words with practised ease.

"Sam, give the poor woman chance; she probably feels as shocked as she looks."

"Yes, sir, absolutely. Sorry, it's just that -"

It was my turn to interrupt. I hoped my English accent had not strayed too far from its Mother country in eight generations.

"It's my fault; I'm afraid I tripped and fell. I do apologise if I gave you a fright."

A pair of well polished men's shoes halted beside me and their owner crouched down. He didn't touch me, but his quiet concern was obvious.

"Can you get up?"

I nodded and wished I hadn't. I kept my lips closed tight to prevent myself being sick. The man offered his hand then, and as I took it and finally looked at him, I got two shocks in quick succession.

He had the most startling blue eyes and with the exception of the hair, he could have been the twin of my engineer, Mike.

I gaped.

He helped me to my feet.

"Forgive me, but you don't look very well. May we give you a lift? Take you to a doctor, to see that you are all right?"

"No, no, thank you. I'm sure I'll be fine."

The young woman, Sam, handed me my suitcase. She still looked both puzzled and apologetic. I thanked her for the 'case. The man continued to look at me in a thoughtful sort of way.

"Can we at least give you a lift somewhere? We're obviously travelling in the same direction."

My natural instinct was to refuse his offer; they could be anyone. The man must have seen and correctly interpreted my hesitation. He reached inside his jacket.

"It's quite all right; you're perfectly safe with the two of us, I have -"

Sam interrupted; I began to suspect that she did this quite a lot.

"This is Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle. You can trust him completely."

He gave her a quick dry look, one eyebrow raised, before he looked back to me.

"Yes, thank you Sam."

He showed me what he had taken from his pocket. It was his warrant card.

I looked at it to give me a moment to pull myself together. What on Earth were the odds of arriving here and bumping straight into the people I'm supposed to be assisting?

Astronomical, that's what. I felt the first stirrings of unease. Something else was going on here and what's more, I think my section Chief knew about it.

TBC.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Foyle's War is a copyright product, this fic is for entertainment only, no infringement intended.

Author: hazeleyes57

Rating: K or U, some mild language.

'Ship: Sam and Foyle

A/N: Continues immediately after chapter one. September 1940

**What will be; 2 **

Reassured, though not for the reasons that they probably thought, I clambered somewhat inelegantly into the back of the large black car, and DCI Foyle joined me. Samantha – who I was already thinking of as 'Sam' – took hold of my suitcase again, carried it around to put it in the boot, then strode confidently back to her seat behind the wheel.

I took a moment to adjust my smart skirt to fix two things; firstly, the backs of my legs were cold on the leather, and secondly, I could already feel my fragile stockings snagging on the small imperfections of that same leather seat. This skirt malarkey was a lot more fraught with danger than I had realised, having spent the last ten years in trousers or shin length skirts and/or dresses. But, to my surprise, I also realised that I felt much more feminine in the knee length skirt and high heels (well, high for me anyway). My feelings were quite mixed when I noticed the involuntary – and appreciative - glance that my companion in the back gave my legs. I had to remind myself that he was my great-times-eight-grandfather, and the young woman now driving us down to Hastings was his future wife and mother of his children.

So any funny frisson of forbidden attraction I may have been experiencing had to remain deeply buried. I didn't matter that we didn't share a fraction of the genetic material that cousins who can legally marry would share. It was just not on.

Perhaps it was genetic recognition. Subconsciously, my body recognised him as 'familiar', so I felt the connection too. I'd had a few relationships in the past (okay, the future) that had not amounted to anything much. Fizzled out after a shortish time, no upset on either side. The nearest thing I had to any kind of romance in my life at all was Mike at work, but I'd never let him get close enough to figure out if we could connect, mainly because I worked with him. Which was stupid really, he might be quite fun. But I liked Mike and didn't want to lose him as a friend if I cocked up the relationship. Which I would; I always did.

C'mon, distract yourself. Think about the work.

I wondered when Sam started dating Andrew Foyle. Without any prompting on my part, the answer popped into my head.

_February 1941. _

My mind seemed quite certain of the fact, so I assumed that it was information from my brain dump. Where did Zak get his information from?

_Samantha Foyle's diaries._

This was distinctly creepy but also quite fascinating. I didn't know that Sam kept a diary.

When did they break up?

_Andrew dumped Sam by letter, dated April 8__th__ 1942, sent from Debden._

Sooo, the cad didn't even have the guts to break it off face to face. Fearless Spitfire Ace, chicken poo boyfriend.

Sam and Andrew date for about fourteen months, but that doesn't even start until Feb '41. I've heard of long courtships, but this takes the corned beef.

Sighing, I looked at Foyle senior and found I was being regarded with mild humour. I had the impression that he could read my mind and it was very disconcerting. He must be a very effective detective. I wanted to tell him everything and he wasn't even trying.

I belatedly remembered my manners (sorry, Mum).

"I'm Lily Davis, by the way. From Reading."

I correctly pronounced it 'Red-ing' not 'Read-ing'. I also automatically held out my hand to shake his. It might be deemed a little forward for a well brought up young 'gel' of this era, but there was a war on and people – women – adapted.

Foyle was far too polite to leave me hanging there.

His hand closed on mine; dry, warm, two shakes, quite firm. Textbook perfect, my Mum would have loved him for that alone.

I was wondering, ludicrously, how much longer I could legitimately hang onto his hand when I spotted Sam's quick look at me in the rear view mirror. Ooopsy.

"Are you staying locally or just visiting friends?"

Foyle's hand withdrew from mine and I felt its loss.

"It's not clear at the moment how long I'll be in Hastings, but I'm a volunteer worker. The curse of a private education; I have a variety of skills, some not as useful as others."

I'm not sure what prompted my comment, as I already had plans to work at the hospital, but I had no guidance for this mission and my gut instinct wondered if I might engineer work a little closer to home.

"What sort of skills?"

Sam's question garnered a raised eyebrow from her boss and she hurriedly tagged on "If you don't mind me asking."

It wasn't so much what skills I had, as much as figuring out which would be pertinent here.

"I can type, file, take dictation, fulfil most of the duties of a librarian, and teach history. I have rudimentary medical knowledge, sufficient for First Aid work; I know my way around a wine cellar, can plan meals for dinner parties and lay out the table so that no-one is socially offended. Oh, and I can dance."

I didn't think it prudent to mention the hand-to-hand combat or the Law thing; people, even exceptional relatives, get a bit funny about that.

Foyle's lips twitched in definite humour this time.

"Anything you can't do?"

"I never got around to learning to fly, and I'm a lousy cook."

They both smiled as I had hoped they would.

"Do you have somewhere to stay?"

I met Sam's eyes in the rear view mirror.

"I'm afraid not. In a town like Hastings I confess I assumed that there would be lots of accommodation available.

"You would think."

Sam's comment was quite glum.

Foyle was looking at me again. It was difficult to figure out what he was thinking, but I had no doubt that he _was. _I suspect that he was often underestimated, but was shrewd enough to let that work for him.

"We are short of secretarial staff."

I looked at him. He had made a statement; he didn't ask me a question.

I didn't take the bait. If I was a spy, I'd probably leap at the chance to work at the police station, wouldn't I?

"Yes, I imagine you are. It's difficult to keep female workers when they can earn so much more at the munitions factories."

"Umm."

I leaned forward slightly, so that Sam would hear me.

"If you would direct me to the Town Hall, I'll enquire about accommodation there and see what they can do."

Sam nodded and glanced over her shoulder.

"Will do."

I leaned back into my seat and looked at the palms of my hands. They were stinging like mad now, and my knees hadn't escaped completely either. What I wouldn't give for some sterile wipes and a bottle of Sprayskin. Thank goodness I'd remembered to have my boosters just before I came here.

Before I could open my bag and get a handkerchief out, a pristine white folded square of cotton was passed to me. I looked at Foyle.

"I couldn't, really. My hands will make it dirty."

He gave a small smile; a subtle twist of his lips. I would love to see him laugh.

"It will wash."

I took it and pressed it to one palm, then the other. The cotton was still warm from his body and smelled of him.

One of us was in trouble; I'm fairly certain that it was me.

A short while later Sam dropped Foyle off at the police station in order for him to get to a meeting.

He turned to Sam as he exited the car.

"Sam, please drop Miss Davis at the Town Hall so she can get her accommodation sorted."

"Yes Sir. Shall I then come back here?"

Foyle paused. Looked at his watch.

"Erm, no, not straightaway. Have some lunch, and then come back afterwards. I won't be out of the meeting until three-ish."

He looked back at me, still seated in the back. He nodded once before replacing his hat.

"Miss Davis. A pleasure."

I couldn't help smiling.

"Thank you for the rescue, and the handkerchief."

"Think nothing of it."

Foyle turned and entered the building behind him, leaving me and Sam alone. Half to myself, I muttered under my breath.

"Couldn't if I tried."

Man crumpet. Thinking women's totty. God, he must have women falling all over him.

"Sorry?"

"Huh? Oh, gosh, I'm so sorry."

_Gosh? Where did that come from? I don't use 'gosh'!_

"I was thinking aloud, terrible habit, please ignore me. So, tell me, what sort of digs can I expect? Crummy, nice, good, better than good?"

Sam seemed to find me amusing, thank goodness.

"As a matter of fact, I've been trying to do the same thing myself. I was just bombed out of my last place and it's been rather difficult finding somewhere new."

It crossed my mind that if it was as simple as keeping Sam out of the last spare lodging, and ergo, in Foyle's spare room, then my task here would be completed today, so when did I write that letter? What had the two Chrisses' done to alter things?

"Miss Davis?"

I'd been so busy pondering that I hadn't noticed that we had pulled up in front of the Town Hall.

"Please call me Lily."

Sam grinned.

"Lily it is. Here we are, Hastings Town Hall. Would you like me to park and come in with you?"

Err…

"If you hadn't met up with me, what would you be doing by now?"

Her answer was very quick and amused.

"Having a spot of lunch. I was going to tackle the digs debacle later."

"Well, you go on with that; this could take ages and I don't want to hold you up. I'm sure you're probably starving."

"More or less all the time. Are you sure you don't mind? Will you be all right?"

Sam's smile turned sheepish. I liked her a lot already. As I climbed out of the car she hopped around the back and brought out my case.

"I'm sure I'll be fine, thanks. Good luck with everything."

"Best of luck to you, too."

With a pleasant nod, Sam drove away.

An hour later I left the Town Hall, having secured the last available letting, and Sam was officially homeless. All I had to do now was stay out of everyone's way and try not to have any impact on the timeline.

For the want of anything else to do, I walked to my new home; at least temporarily, I hoped. It was a quaint terraced house with flint exterior walls, and a green painted door. It was odd to see such an old house looking relatively new.

The front door opened onto a smallish room. A staircase on the left led up to two bedrooms, one front, one back, but only the front one had a bed. The back room was full of packed boxes.

Back downstairs a door led through to the kitchen and another door at the back went through to a small scullery, and finally I found the bathroom and toilet. Thank goodness for that – I had for a ghastly moment thought that the loo might have been at the bottom of the garden. All mod cons here then.

There was a door from the scullery to the garden, I assume, as I didn't check it.

Back in the kitchen a small table with three chairs was up against one wall. A large stove had been place in the chimney alcove. A deep butler sink and wooden drainer were under the window; whoever washed the dishes would be able to look up the garden.

The whole place was terribly sweet, but I missed my large and cluttered flat, my books and ready meals. I was suddenly ravenous.

With no food.

Well, I have plenty of money, I'll eat out. I left my case in the bedroom, bathed my hands and knees, and then went back upstairs.

I swear I only sat down for a moment to see if the bed was comfortable, but when I woke up, three hours had passed. I was even hungrier now.

I tidied myself up, and went out to look for a restaurant. I fancied Italian, but I doubted I'd find one in Hastings.

Contrary to my expectations, I found a small _restaurante, _tucked away in a little back street. It was busy, but I managed to get a table by the window.

The proprietor, Carlo, obviously genuinely Italian, appeared to run the place with his son, Tony. The son tried a bit of patter with a young woman on the next table, but he didn't try it with me. Too long in the tooth at '35'. _Far _too old in reality. I hid another grin.

In the few minutes I waited for Carlo or his son to come to my table, I thought about DCI Christopher Foyle. I felt very confused by my feelings for him. Actually, I felt confused about any feelings _at all._ My heart had been in a state of deep freeze for some time; I just didn't want to know after my last disaster. But now, _now_ I could easily imagine making love to him; _making love_, not just having sex. It was too ridiculous, I barely knew the man.

But, there was all that tingledge when we touched. True, we were related, but only very distantly. Not in a brother-pervy sort of way.

In an entirely hypothetical exercise, I worked out how to go about getting my man.

_My man_.

Hmm. That was a little worrying.

Okay. Practicalities. He was free until 1946, although his heart was probably engaged earlier. More accessed diary memories told me that something kick-started the romance between Sam and Foyle _way _before they got together, but frustratingly, they did not mention _what_.

By all accounts, including Sam's, Foyle was emotionally quite distant, quietly keeping people at arms length. Perhaps it was the fact that he lost his wife; too young, too early. It would make anyone wary of another emotional entanglement, another potential loss.

Hmm.

What I needed was some sort of sign.

A ruddy great big one that says _'hands off Foyle, he's mine, signed, Sam Stewart'._

This was just a paper exercise; the lovely DCI Foyle was to remain unmolested.

I decided that I was desperate enough to have a glass of wine while I waited. I looked around for Carlo, but couldn't see him.

Less than a minute later Foyle walked into the restaurant. I couldn't believe my eyes.

Was this my sign? Or just another unbelievable coincidence?

He didn't see me at first, so I watched Carlo greet him as an old and dear friend. I wondered how they knew each other.

Judging from what I could see, Carlo was explaining that he was very nearly full; probably asking his friend if he would mind waiting a few minutes for a table. Foyle turned to survey the room and our eyes met.

I smiled.

Carlo came over; Foyle waited.

"I understand that you know my friend? Mr Foyle?"

"Yes, I do. Please ask him if he would like to join me. I can see that you are busy."

Carlo beamed.

"Bella! Is good that he does not dine alone, yes?"

I followed the frangled English and nodded.

When Foyle came over at Carlo's behest a few moments later, he had left his hat and coat on a peg beside the entrance. He, Foyle, looked smart but more approachable in a nice suit.

"Miss Davis."

He waited politely, his hand on the back of the other chair.

"Mr Foyle. Good to see you again. Please, have a seat."

He pulled the chair out and sat down.

"Thank you. Did you…um…manage to sort out your accommodation?"

"Yes, I did, thank you, and please call me Lily. 'Miss Davis' sounds like my piano teacher."

Foyle smiled.

"So you play the piano, as well as your other accomplishments?"

"No, sadly, not a note, Mr Foyle. Far too many keys. Got horribly confused."

His smile became a grin. I definitely wanted to see him laugh.

"Please, call me Christopher. 'Mr Foyle' sounds like my violin teacher."

Inside, I found that I was thawing; possibly even smiling a little. It's been years since I had an honest to goodness flirt.

"So, you can play the violin, as well as all your other accomplishments?"

His face was completely straight when he answered.

"Sadly, not a note. Not enough keys; got horribly confused."

I chuckled quietly, though I wanted to laugh out loud.

Carlo came over with two glasses and a bottle of Chianti. After he poured us a glass each and had gone away again, we both took a sip of the wine.

"So, Christopher, do you ever get called 'Chris'?"

He looked surprised.

"Erm, no. No, not as a rule."

I smile again; I seemed to be doing a lot of it lately. I leaned forward and lowered my voice.

"Then I shall call you Chris, if you don't mind?"

He looked at me for a long moment, and then seemed to come to some sort of internal decision.

"No, I don't mind."

He picked up the menu, but there wasn't much on it.

Carlo came back and asked us if we were ready to order. Chris looked at me, eyebrows raised.

"I'll have the vegetarian pasta, please."

Both men looked at me very oddly. For a long moment, I didn't get it.

Another oops. Vegetarians were still thin on the ground socially in 1940.

"Sorry; the pasta with vegetables in the white wine sauce."

Carlo nodded, but Chris gave me a thoughtful look before he made his choice.

"I'll have the spaghetti bolognaise, please, Carlo."

The restaurant owner gave a minute shake of the head, which I didn't understand. Without missing a beat, Chris continued.

"Actually, no, I think I'll have the pasta, too."

Carlo beamed his approval and whisked himself away.

"What was that all about?"

"The pasta? Carlo usually tips me the wink if anything is not quite as good as it should be. The meat is sometimes not of the best quality."

"Ah, I see."

We chatted on while we waited for the food to be prepared. The Chianti flowed, the atmosphere seemed to me to turn mellow, and I was vaguely aware that my alcohol tolerance was not as good as I remembered it. Thankfully, the food arrived quite quickly and I could start mopping up the alcohol. We ate, and occasionally talked.

In a sudden moment of lucidity, I also remembered that there were questions that a woman should ask of a man she is interested in; especially when she is not supposed to know the answers already.

"May I ask you a personal question?"

Chris seemed a little wary.

"That would depend on the question."

"Oh, my motives are strictly dishonourable."

Chris raised an eyebrow, but curiosity obviously got the better of him.

"Mmm?"

"I'm sure there are delicate and subtle ways to ask this, but I haven't the wit or sobriety to figure them out. Before we go any further – and I confess, I would like to go further – I need to ask if you are married. I'm sure I must seem very forward to you, but I don't fool around."

I'd obviously shocked him into silence. He looked at the tablecloth for so long that I though he wasn't going to answer.

"I was. She…died."

"I'm so sorry."

Chris looked up briefly.

"Well, it wasn't your fault."

"Yes, I know. That was sympathy, not apology."

_Cripes! I really have had too much Chianti on an empty stomach._

Chris looked at me, his head slightly tilted, as if I was a difficult puzzle to solve.

"You are very…"

"Tactless? Blunt? Go on, you can tell me."

He smiled without rancour.

"I was going to say 'unusual'. Oddly refreshing. Different."

"Oh dear. Not good. I'm supposed to blend."

"Blend? Why? Who says?"

I was suddenly in deep water. Note to self; no more drinking until the Foyle/Stewart alliance was formerly ratified.

"Oh, no-one, really, just…you know. Time of war, shouldn't stand out. I'm always putting my foot in it. An ex of mine was of the opinion that I thought 'tact' meant nailed down. Sadly for that relationship, I took it as a compliment."

I looked at Chris, _really_ looked into those so blue and so familiar eyes.

"Either way, I was out of line. Blame the wine, and I won't have any more. Was it long ago?"

The sudden switch made him blink.

"Nine years."

"Not that long ago in the big scheme of things."

Chris looked surprised. He leaned back in his chair.

"You are the first person that hasn't told me that it was a long time ago and I should be moving on."

I had lost interest in the meagre remains of my meal and placed the knife and fork tidily.

"No-one's business but yours. If and when you're ready, or you meet the right woman. Or look at one you already know with new eyes."

Gawd, but I'd strayed right out into the deep. I'd better shut up now. Or go. Or both.

Instead, he surprised me.

"Have you got your post sorted out at the hospital yet?"

The complete change of topic was unexpected.

"The voluntary position? No, not yet, why?"

"Come and work at the station. Your secretarial skills will be of far more use to me than the hospital, which, incidentally, already has more volunteers than they can reasonably handle."

I'm sure I must have looked like a winded goldfish for several seconds.

Did he want me there for the reason he had just given? Or did he want me there because I didn't blend in as I should and he could keep an eye on me? Or because he, too, was interested?

Or – and this was a big or – was this what was meant to happen to straighten out the timeline?

Chris was still waiting patiently.

I went with my guts.

"Yes. All right, I'll work at the station. If there is useful work I can do."

He smiled and gave a small nod. I got the impression that he was pleased.

"I'm sure you'll be a great help."

I was going to ask him how long a background check on me would take before I could start working for him when I realised that I was too far back in the past for that. They could do some rudimentary checks, but my background would be suitably organised already, or all of my records would have been conveniently destroyed in a bombing.

"When do I start?"

"Eight o'clock sharp tomorrow morning. If I don't need Sam first thing, I'll get her to show you the ropes. Given the average typing speed of our local constabulary, you may be very busy."

"Sounds like fun. I'll look forward to it."

"Good."

That seemed to close the matter and our conversation moved on until we realised that we were holding up the table for other patrons. We left the table and went to the front desk to pay for the meal. I looked in my unfamiliar bag for my purse. Before I could get it out, Chris gave me another odd look before asking Carlo for the bill. He looked at me while we waited.

"Please allow me. I imposed on your hospitality; call me old fashioned, but I expect to pay for the meal when I dine with a lady."

Several responses popped into my head, some pithy, some cheeky, and at least one rude, but instead I stopped looking for my purse and managed to say 'thank-you'.

"My pleasure."

He really sounded to me like he meant it. But then I _wanted_ him to mean it.

When we left the restaurant I stood, a little awkwardly I thought, not knowing what to do next. I looked at the memorial to the Fallen of the Great War while I dithered.

"Do you have far to go?"

"No, not really, just off Queen's Road. Hardly a fair stretch of the legs, as my old nanna used to say."

Chris placed his hat on his head and turned towards his right, to go down the road.

"May I walk you home? You aren't familiar with Hastings, and most of the signs have been removed."

I'm afraid that I probably didn't hide as much of my pleasure as I ought to have done.

"Yes, that would be…lovely. Thank you."

So we walked and talked, and I got out of breath, not being anywhere near as fit as I should have been. All too quickly we reached my lodgings.

"Well, here we are; this is me. Thank you for the escort and the company. I'd invite you in for coffee, but I haven't bought anything yet, so I'm fairly certain I don't have any."

"Quite all right, not to worry."

I didn't want him to think I didn't want to invite him in.

"Another time, perhaps?"

Chris smiled gently and I felt young, guilty and transparent. And excited.

"Perhaps."

"See you tomorrow, eight am.?"

He nodded.

"Eight sharp."

Chris waited until I was inside the house before he left. What a sweet man.

As I shut the door behind me, and leaned on it, I wondered what tomorrow would bring. I suddenly realised that it was the first time in a long time that I was actually interested in finding out.

I was tired, desperate for a cup of tea, a hot shower and a warm bed.

But I hadn't felt this alive in a long time.

Then my heart sank.

As Chris had been out with me, _he hadn't been at home with Sam. _

Had _I_ messed things up even more?

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Copyright product, not owned by me, not making any money from this; all Mr Horowitz doings. Characters borrowed without permission, but returned safe. Original character Lily is all my idea.

Author: hazeleyes57

Title: What will be (3)

'Ship: Sam and Foyle, honestly!

A/N: Still September 1940. Historical note; two-way mirrors were first patented in Feb 1903!!

**What Will Be – part three**

Although it wasn't late and I'd already had a nap, I was exhausted. I would have loved a long hot bath, or even a warm shower, but there was not enough hot water yet and no shower anyway. I couldn't even have a milky drink. Far too late it dawned on me that I hadn't got anything for breakfast either. In the end I sorted the blackout curtains, changed for bed, hung up the clothes I had with me, removed my make up, and slid in between cool, crisp sheets under a couple of blankets.

Guilt made me toss and turn for some time. I never cheated and I never poached boyfriends. In a big and sometimes unfriendly world, I needed standards I believed in to live by. I know they say that all's fair in love and war, but if you let one standard go, it unravels the rest. Besides, I didn't know that I loved Chris; all I knew was that I'd never felt anything like I did now about anyone else. Which brought me back to my purpose for being here. I had to get Sam and Foyle back on track.

Funny that; I call him Foyle for Sam, but Chris for me. Almost as if my subconscious is trying to pretend that they are two different people.

I wonder now whether the Chrisses' had actually done anything to alter what went on here. I hadn't seen either of them here in 1940 yet, though I had several more days to get through before the end of the week. Time travel messes with your sanity. To this day I wonder why I was picked for it, but the Selector is never wrong.

I don't remember much more until unutterably cheerful birds woke me at the crack of dawn. I surfaced with bleary reluctance, interrupted from a weird dream involving Chris, Sam, Mike, myself, the Boss back home and a vague feeling that I was at the mercy of a Big Plan that I knew nothing about. I bashed my pillows about a bit, but couldn't get back to sleep.

I am not a morning person. I cannot function without a cup of tea. I looked at my watch and groaned. No shop of this time period was open twenty four seven and I would be at work before most trades opened their doors.

As I had nothing else to do except wash and get dressed, which wouldn't take hours, I remained in bed and scrolled through some of my new memories. I caught up on where we were during the war at the moment, listened to some of Churchill's speeches. I stopped when I got to November 1940 – the month after next – when Neville Chamberlain died. Being here in 1940 gave me a new perspective that no amount of reading could do and I was terribly moved by Churchill's tribute to him. History tended to remember Chamberlain only as the 'peace in our time' man and getting it wrong, but he was 'grievously misled by a wicked man'.

Feeling very sniffley, I changed track and sought out Sam's diaries. In some respects she wrote as if she expected the entries to be read by 'the enemy', and gave no secrets away, but sometimes, reading between the lines, as another woman, gave some insight. Although I skipped one or two pages, I read most of it chronologically even though I didn't have to and she referred to 'Mr F' on a regular basis until September 1940, when it changed to 'Dear Mr F', after an incident at Bexhill fuel depot.

'_I was utterly terrified when I realised that the door locked and I was trapped in the office with a bomb. I ran round like a frantic bird, trying all the windows. Who could help me? Well, dear diary, instead of telephoning the nearest person with keys or even the local police, the first person I thought of in my hour of need was Dear Mr F. He was marvellous, I was so glad that he was still in his office; he could so easily have left for the day. He came charging in like gangbusters with the bomb squad, but he was first through the door and took me outside. He was a little cross with me, but only, I think, because he cares. He made one of his little jokes about the Sergeant being a terrible driver. Well, I don't want anyone else driving him anywhere!'_

Aha! A clue. Sam is obviously developing feelings for her boss. Looking at it objectively, I imagine Chris likes her a lot already; it just leaves me to figure out what gets the two of them to acknowledge how they feel about each other _to _each other.

This Bexhill business must be some time in the next three weeks, more or less straight after the looting from the bombed out buildings gets solved and Sam helps Chris by identifying the cog from the synchromesh gears. Clever clogs.

I resisted the temptation to read on to Sam's romance with Andrew; I didn't want to know yet, if at all. I wanted to get to know the real Sam and Chris first.

I got out of bed and grumped through my ablutions. I was really missing my tea and toast with blackcurrant jam. I looked at my watch. Seven fifteen. Frack it; it was still the crack of dawn.

I was just debating whether or not to go for a walk along the seafront when the doorbell rang. At first I didn't know if I should answer it or not; I mean, who knew that I was here?

Well, Chris did. I scrambled downstairs with my usual unladylike haste, unlocked and opened the door.

Only to see a smiling Sam standing on the path and holding some packages. I hope I managed to hide my disappointment.

"Oh. Sam. What a surprise! Please come in. What can I do for you?"

Sam stepped past me and looked appreciatively around the place.

"Oh, this is lovely. You are so lucky! I haven't been able to find a place yet; I'd love something like this."

Tongue in my cheek, hopefully hidden, I looked at her with innocence.

"So, you found somewhere to stay last night, then?"

She actually went pink. It was lovely to see. I'd have given quite a lot to have been a fly on the wall last night.

"Oh, a friend let me have h- their spare room."

I'll bet he did. Yay me!

"That's good. I did think of you, wondered how you got on."

Sam suddenly seemed to remember why she was here.

"Mr Foyle asked me to get you a few things as he said that you hadn't been shopping yet. I'm afraid some of the rationed stuff you'll have to give back as your own allocation; I couldn't get any sugar, but there is a little bacon, some tea, milk, bread and butter. Thank goodness bread isn't rationed yet, I'd starve."

I was so pleased when she mentioned tea that I wanted to hug her, so I let her off explaining just when and how _Mr Foyle_ had passed on his message to her.

I quickly consulted my list of available information on rationing as I got some money out of my purse;

'_Initial rationing introduced January 1940; butter, bacon and sugar first, March, meat and preserves, July, tea, margarine, cooking fats, and 1941, cheese.'_

"You and Mr Foyle are angels, sent to save me. Have you time for a quick cuppa?"

Sam's already cheerful face brightened further.

"Rather! I might not get chance later. I have to deliver and collect Mr Foyle from a meeting he's not looking forward to. He seems to have a lot of those just lately. Perhaps I can convince him to stop afterwards."

We had moved into the kitchen and I'd got the kettle on to boil. It seemed to take forever compared with my kettle at home, but it gave me time to get some toast going. There was no stasis field or even an airtight contained to keep the bread fresh, so I wrapped it in the baking paper I found in a cupboard, then wrapped in a tea-towel. Sam clearly thought I was nuts, but didn't say anything.

"It keeps the bread soft and slows down the mould. It'll last longer."

Sam's face cleared.

"That's jolly clever. I'll have to remember that."

Eventually we were seated at the table with tea and toast with jam. I have a non-sugar substitute in my tea usually, and I confess I did bring some with me, although in a little envelope, not their usual dispenser.

Sam pulled a face as she sipped her tea.

"I dare say I'll get used to the lack of sugar in my tea, but it hasn't happened yet."

"I know what you mean." I took a sip of tea. "Oh, is that someone at the door?"

Sam cocked her head.

"I didn't hear anything. Are you sure…?"

"Oh, be an absolute sweetie and just have a quick look for me while I see if I can find any last dregs of sugar here."

As soon as Sam left I dropped a couple of SuSubs in our cups and stirred quickly. Life was tough enough without having to endure unsweetened tea.

Sam was back in a moment, shaking her head.

"No-one there, must be imagining things."

I smiled.

"Thanks anyway. Found a little sugar, hope yours is okay."

Sam looked a little baffled, but tested her tea.

"Oh, that's heavenly."

While she was revelling in her tea, I leaned forward in a friendly – I hoped - manner.

"So, tell me, do you have someone you're stepping out with?"

Sam coughed as her tea went down the wrong way. She looked even pinker than before.

"Umm…"

Oh, this was wicked fun.

Sam had the car with her and it was not a long trip to go back to collect Chris, sorry, Mr Foyle, my new boss. Naturally I acted as if I had no clue that Sam had spent the night at his house. He didn't seem surprised to see me sitting beside Sam, and I thanked him for his thoughtfulness about my breakfast.

"Not a problem. It's not just the army fights on its stomach."

I caught a wry look directed at Sam and grinned. It was obvious that Chris and I shared the same dryly wicked sense of humour.

Before long, Sam drove up in front of the police station. Chris and I got out of the car; Sam then drove off, presumably to garages at the rear of the building.

Chris introduced me to Sgt Rivers, an older looking, bluff sort of chap, who manned the front desk. Rivers was obviously pleased to have a 'real' secretary on the premises; you could see the relief on his face. The sergeant gave Chris his messages verbally – obviously saving paper – and was thanked with courtesy. I got a guided tour of the station, avoiding sensitive areas naturally, so I at least knew where the staff room, toilets, front desk and Chris' office were.

"I'll introduce you to Sgt Milner when he gets in. He tends to type his own reports, but if we are busy, I'm sure he'd appreciate your help too."

"Anything to do my bit. All I'll need is a typewriter, a table and chair, a copy of how you like the reports typed up, and Bob's your uncle."

I looked around, wondering where this desk of mine would be situated.

Sgt Rivers leaned over the front desk so that he could see his boss in the corridor.

"Sir? Call for you; it's Sgt Milner."

Chris nodded once to me.

"If you'll excuse me for a minute?"

I nodded too, and took myself off to the staff room to wait. Sam came in a few minutes later and straightaway set to making tea.

Sam obviously had a great need for conversation; I suspect that Foyle often had to be firm to stop the flow when necessary, but she didn't give away any secrets. She was young; only in her early twenties, but the war had - and would - mature her greatly. I could see them both making a go of it by 1946. But for now, she was content to leave her affection for the boss in her diary, and merely expressed herself by making him cups of tea.

I zoned back in.

"…so I said to him that I was dreadfully sorry about the whole business, and perhaps he should have it out with her, you know, clear the air sort of thing. She simply left without saying anything; I wouldn't have, but then I wouldn't have jumped to the conclusion that just because my husband was dancing in the living room with another woman that he was misbehaving. D'you see what I mean?"

No, not a clue. I looked attentive and nodded, in the hope that she would not ask my opinion further.

"Well, I think that's why Paul – Sgt Milner – is on the telephone now."

Then the penny dropped. I remembered in my letter I had referred to Sam staying at Milner's house, and his first wife coming home early. How did Sam know he'd just rung Chris? Whatever the jungle telegraph was around here, it was very efficient.

Sam passed me a cup of tea and took one off to her Dear Mr F. She was back in five minutes.

"When we're done here, I get to show you your office. It's not much, I'm afraid, but we had to use the original secretary's office for storage. But it's already got a table and chair, and a nice mirror."

A mirror?

"Lovely. Look forward to seeing it."

Ten minutes later, Sam led me along the corridor from Chris' office to a closed door. She swung the door open with a flourish and stepped back for me to enter the room first.

"What do you think?"

The room was smallish, perhaps ten foot by eight. There was a window, but it was high up on the wall and I couldn't see out. Along the left hand wall, taking up perhaps two thirds of it, was a large mirror. I looked at Sam. Was she aware that it was an interview room? Was I supposed to recognise a two-way mirror when I saw one? Or would a secretarial type like me not be aware of such things?

I kept quiet about my suspicions; perhaps Chris didn't quite trust me yet, but that was okay.

"It'll do nicely. The mirror will reflect some extra light too, so that's fine."

Sam looked at the mirror.

"I thought it rather odd to have such a large one in here; policemen don't generally seem to be too vain, do they?"

I hid another grin.

"Not usually, no."

Just at that moment Sgt Rivers came in, struggling under the weight of a large manual typewriter. He placed it on the desk with obvious gratitude, then brushed his hands.

"There you go, Miss. I've put a fresh ribbon in; old one had dried up – I've got it soaking in ink now. One on my lads will bring you blank report sheets and a specimen report, and just tell him if you need anything else."

"Thanks, Sergeant, you are a wonder."

I looked at him and smiled; he harrumphed and went a little pink. Sam put her fingers in front of her mouth and managed to keep her face straight.

After the sergeant and Sam had gone, I moved the typewriter so that I faced the door whilst typing, with the window behind me rather than the mirror. I didn't like the idea of someone looking over my shoulder without my knowing it.

Fifteen minutes later I was ready to go; I had already had two deliveries of trays of reports to type up, and it looked like I'd have my work cut out to keep ahead of the game. Somewhere along the line I had completely forgotten until Rivers turned up with the antique that I was now in the pre-electric typewriter era.

I fed a plain sheet into the roller. I placed my fingers on the 'first position' and tried a quick test type. I quickly learned that I'd need to push the keys a lot harder than I was used to. I glanced around the room and muttered to myself.

"No point having an electric typewriter anyway, there's nowhere to plug it in."

"Plug what in?"

I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sound of Chris' voice.

"Oh! You startled me! I didn't hear you."

How much had he heard?

Chris stepped into the room from the doorway.

"Everything all right? Got all you need?"

I nodded.

"Oh, yes. Everyone has been so helpful. And busy. I had no idea Hastings was such a hotbed of crime and misbehaviour."

Chris looked at me with an expression I couldn't read exactly.

"Appearances are often deceptive. I never judge a book by its cover."

"A sound policy."

I trusted my instincts and took a gamble.

"You strike me as a man capable of telling the difference between a mushroom and a toadstool."

It must have been the longest three seconds in history.

"I like to think I can…"

I opened my mouth to say something cheeky, but Chris hadn't finished.

"…but then I do appreciate decent mushrooms, and naturally avoid toadstools as a matter of course."

"Absolutely."

I think we understood each other very well. I hadn't had a decent mushroom in ages.

Or even an indecent one.

I looked at my mission for the day report pile and smiled my 'pleasant but dismissive' smile. The one that had taken years to perfect. The one that I was still rubbish at.

"Well, I must get on. Was there anything else…?"

"No, no, just…um…checking that you had everything you need."

"Thank you, yes. Oh, except, when do I go for lunch?"

Chris had turned to go at my 'thank you, yes', but now he halted and looked back at me.

"Twelve thirty, unless you finish earlier. Y'know, you and Sam should get on famously; you have a lot in common."

He left without waiting for a reply, and I had to grin.

Ah, well, back to my antique.

The next couple of days followed the same pattern of sleep/eat/work and I felt as if I'd typed every incident of police note that had occurred within fifty miles in any direction. Where tactfully possible, I stayed out of Sam and Foyle's way, letting them work as they obviously should. I kept my eyes peeled for either one of the Chrisses, and tried not to get depressed at all the deliberately lost opportunities to seduce Chris.

In the all too few quiet moments, I studied the war and read Sam's diaries. I should have realised that it was going to happen, but it still came as a real surprise when my own name cropped up. My own pseudonym, at least.

_Almost ran over someone today, heaven alone knows where she came from, but we gave her a lift into H. Lily Davis is her name. Seems nice. Hope she wasn't trying to kill herself under the Wolseley. It would have been simply too terrible._

No, I wasn't, but thanks anyway. There was another entry for the following day.

_Lily is our new secretary. Dear Mr F asked her to work for him. Mixed feelings. Like her a lot, but I think she has her eye on you-know-who. Must wait and see, I suppose. Utter torment, but I'd like him to be happy, even if it wasn't with me. Don't suppose he'll never look at me in that way; he just thinks I'm too young._

The following day I saw Sam in the morning in her uniform, but in the afternoon she was wearing brown overalls. She was very excited about her 'mission', but kept it all hush-hush, when she told me she wouldn't be around for a few days.

I didn't say anything except to wish her good luck. I wasn't supposed to know about the Bexhill business, but I was concerned that this might be the intervention moment. Did one or other of the Chrisses interfere with Foyle's rescue? There was nothing I could say, and to cap it all, I discovered quite by accident that Chris' son Andrew was back at home; or, at least, when he wasn't at the airfield.

That meant Sam wasn't there anymore. Where the heck was she staying?

More to the point, could I trust myself around Chris now that he was free in the evenings, without Sam staying in his spare room?

Nope.

The first time he looked a bit down in the mouth after lunch with his son, I couldn't help but ask if he was all right. He demurred, naturally, saying that he was quite well, but I could see something was bothering him. I managed to finagle an evening meal invitation out of him; well, actually, that's not strictly true – I asked him out. For the meal, that is. I think he was quite taken aback with this _forward hussy_; he could have even thought I was _shameless_, but thankfully for me, he didn't say anything other than 'yes'.

We went back to Carlo's place, and bless his sweet Italian socks, he was obviously pleased that his dear friend Christopher was not eating alone _again._

It was a lovely evening; I was more careful with the Chianti and didn't put my foot in my mouth. I didn't push Sam's suit with him; he would get a jolt in the right direction before the end of the week was out, then have to sweat while she dated his son, and later the American chap.

So no, this evening was for me. Being midweek, the restaurant wasn't so busy, so we lingered over the meal, and gently bemoaned the lack of ice cream, which, after all, the Italians do so well.

To my utter and total surprise, he talked about his late wife, Rosalind. I was both pleased and dismayed; he wasn't in the mood for seduction if he was talking about his wife, but on the other hand, maybe he was talking about her as a self-defence mechanism; if he spoke of her, then I wouldn't assume that he was available to romance. Which could mean that I was getting to him.

I didn't find out until later that he rarely spoke of Rosalind; if I had known, I would have been more flattered that he felt able to do so with me.

As before, Chris walked me back to my lodgings. He didn't ask this time, it was the done thing, after all. After we had been walking for a few minutes, I slipped my hand into the crook of his arm and he didn't move to politely dislodge me. Eventually and far too soon, we arrived on my doorstep.

"Would you like to come in for a drink?"

Chris looked distinctly torn. I suppose it was racing on a little for the 1940's mores, but I was reluctant for the evening to end just yet.

"I…erm, don't think…that, it's…quite…"

"Appropriate? No, neither do I by today's standards. But, as has been pointed out, we are at war, and who knows what tomorrow will bring? I dare say one drink won't change me from a mushroom to a toadstool, and I promise to behave."

Chris smiled and shook his head. I wasn't sure if it was a negative answer, or a 'what am I going to do with you' shake.

I brought out the big guns.

"Not partial to a fine malt, then?"

When he caved in, politely, I like to think that it was the company rather than the booze, but I think it certainly tipped the balance.

We were seated in two armchairs, we talked much and drank a little, and he unloaded some of his burdens to me. He mentioned that his son's friend, Rex, had let the cat out of the bag at lunch, earlier today, about Andrew seeing a young woman. Being on his own for so long, I think Chris missed the chance to mull things over with someone, and I was just the right ear at the right time.

It was a very pleasant evening all told. Just for a little while, I allowed myself to imagine that this was my life; I lived here, worked here, loved here, and any minute now, we would go upstairs and make sweet love until we fell into satiated slumber.

But all dreams are destined to end, and eventually, Chris made ready to leave. Although I'm not generally a tactile person, I put my hand on his sleeve and quite spontaneously kissed him on the cheek. It just seemed the right thing to do.

He looked surprised; I'm quite certain that I did, too. However, before he could object, or say anything, really, I moved away to stand by the front door. As soon as he crossed the small room to join me, I turned off the lights so that I could open the door without showing a light. It was pitch dark until I opened the door and moonlight shone brightly enough to cast night shadows.

Chris held his hat in his left hand. He looked like he wanted to say something, but when he did finally speak, I had the distinct impression that it wasn't what he had been going to say.

"Thank you for a very enjoyable evening."

Replete with food, Chianti and a serious shot of Scotch, I was feeling very relaxed and receptive. Standing together in the dark, close but not touching, it felt curiously intimate in the old sense of the word.

_Oh dear._

My heart was going pit-pat, and there were other signs present to indicate that I was heading for trouble if I stayed on my present course. I _wanted _Chris with a strength that surprised me. For the first time in my life, I could glimpse what all the fuss was about. In previous liaisons, I'd always made an intellectual decision to have sex as a natural progression in a relationship. Now I wanted it simply because I _really_ wanted it.

With a man who was destined for another woman.

In a little under six years.

"No, thank _you_; I had fun. You are very amusing company; you have a droll sense of humour that I both understand and appreciate."

I couldn't tell if he was blushing, but he did have a very self-deprecating smile on his face.

"You're too kind."

I wasn't feeling 'kind' at all.

If only I could stop myself from willing him to shove me up against the wall behind me and kiss me senseless; to push one of his legs between mine; to grasp my body and pull me against the length of his.

Christ, I was practically panting.

I discreetly licked my dry lips, tasting the unfamiliar presence of lipstick. I saw Chris' gaze fall to my mouth and his eyes glittered in the moonlight.

Oh, they probably had a special place in hell for me; right beside the people who talk at the theatre.

I had to do the right thing for him, at least.

"See you tomorrow, at work."

Chris might have sighed, I couldn't be sure. I wondered if he could feel the electricity between us; it certainly was zinging around me, either way you look at it.

No; it couldn't be. He was destined for another, and they were soulmates, I knew it.

"Tomorrow. Yes, work, of course…"

Chris nodded as he spoke, as if he were reinforcing what he was thinking.

"…but you will still have to eat, won't you?"

Oh, why does he have to make it so hard for me to resist?

"Yes…I still have to eat."

Chris' look turned wry, his lips hitching at one side, amused.

"I couldn't let Carlo down. I'd never hear the end of it. Have dinner with me, tomorrow night."

It wasn't a question.

Forty eight hours or so until I must leave; how much trouble could I get into with such an honourable man?

Plenty.

So I have to be firm for the both of us. Put my foot down with a firm hand. Say 'no', and mean it. Absolutely, definitely one hundred and ten percent mean it.

"Yes, I'd love to."

_Bugger._

With a distinct air of satisfaction, Chris stepped out onto the path before turning back to me.

"Good."

He placed his hat on his head.

"'Goodnight, Lily. Sleep well."

_Oh, like I was going to be able to now!_

"You, too."

Sleep well, my posterior. I'll be plagued all night by my lustful imagination. Which was unexpectedly turning out to be both lustful, and very imaginative.

It was going to be a long night.

TBC.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Foyle's War is a copyright product of belonging to other people. No infringement is meant or sought.

Author: hazeleyes57

Rating: T (USA) A (UK).

A/N: Huge apologies, but I've just realised that Carlo's restaurant was set alight in June 1940, so he was long gone by September 1940. I'm kicking myself, because I've tried hard to be true to the series, but it's too late now, so please suspend your disbelief a little higher for a little bit longer (what? It wasn't suspended already?).

**What will be – part four**

After a restless night plagued with dreams that would make me blush, let alone my mother (okay, poor example, maybe not my mother; excellent smutty sense of humour, passed along through family genes), I overslept and was nearly late for work. My frantic rush to impress the boss, aka DCI Christopher Foyle, went unnoticed by him on account of him not actually being there.

In some respects this was a blessing, because I wasn't sure how to face him today. The glittering-eyed man I'd felt so close to in the moonlight might not have been the man who would face me across the staff room.

Sam was still away on her hush-hush mission at Bexhill. Milner, who I had finally met at last, was off interviewing people with Foyle, and I was greeted in my office by a pile of handwritten notes needing transcribing for the boys in blue.

Ah well, it keeps me out of mischief. Mostly.

The morning took too long to pass. Although I was busy, I had been typing on the antique long enough to have gained some speed, apart from the occasional twang/clunk that meant I'd got three or four letters tangled, and so it wasn't much of a distraction from my thoughts. The longer it took before I met up with Chris, the more anxious I became. When I realised, about eleven-ish, that my shoulders were trying to hide my ears, I took a break for a cup of tea. Standing beside the not-yet-boiling kettle, I forced myself to relax. The way of life here in the forties was so much less frenetic. Not much in the way of labour saving devices, but also not so much to clean up either. Life here was complex in its own way, but much simpler in other ways; I hated the confusion of too much choice. Here I could choose to have white bread or brown. Both colours were loaf shaped. No multi seeded, granary, wholemeal, HRT assisting, cancer curing, hormonal, thick, medium, thin, crustless wonders. Just bread, pure and simple. For example, take this bread knife. I picked it up off the draining board by the sink and turned the blade to look at it. One knife to cut most things up, not sixteen different ones with different shaped blades and edges and compositions, with prongy additions on the end. When I get home, I'm going to simplify my life. Get rid of the clutter, sort out the –

"Is there enough water in there for another cup, d'you think?"

Well. All I can say is; it was a good thing that I wasn't using the knife, or I might just have lost a finger or two. I turned towards the dulcet tones of my boss and flicked my gaze over the man standing in the doorway. I managed not to drool. I think.

"Absolutely."

_Absolutely? _Hanging around Sam has already begun to rub off on me.

Chris frowned in thought; maybe he was wondering the same thing.

"Are you going to use that?"

Or maybe not.

"What?"

He pointed at the knife still in my hand. I put it down.

"Oh, goodness, no. I was just looking at it."

Thankfully, the kettle started to boil, so I turned and lifted it off the gas ring, then made a small pot of tea. I glanced over my shoulder and caught Chris looking at my legs. I quickly looked back at the pot before he noticed.

"Where would you like it?"

I turned to look at him this time, and he looked a little distracted.

"Mmm?"

Definitely distracted. I felt the imp of mischief move into the driving seat.

"Where do you want it?"

Both eyebrows rose; he looked the picture of startlement.

"Pardon?"

"You can have it here on the table or on the desk in your office. I don't mind which."

Chris smoothed his tie down with one hand. His lips pursed as he glanced up the corridor. Sergeant Rivers was heading this way and would be in the room in moments. Chris' lips curved into a polite smile, but his eyes danced.

"I have no objection to here on the table, but I'd prefer it in my office. Quieter, y'know. Wouldn't want to disturb anyone, if I needed to…um...use the telephone."

I smiled sweetly as the Sergeant passed Chris in the doorway.

"I'll bring it through directly. I expect you like it hot."

Chris hesitated as he turned to leave and gave me what my mum used to call 'an old-fashioned look'.

How appropriate. Pity for him that I could tell he was trying not to laugh.

He cleared his throat instead.

"Usually better that way."

Oh, how true.

Chris went back to his office and I took him his cup of tea five minutes later. We never had chance for any further innuendo-laden banter, as Paul Milner had joined him. I offered to get a cup for him, too, which he gratefully accepted.

I went back to my 'room', and took my tea with me. I felt much more relaxed.

The afternoon went a lot quicker now that I knew Chris was back and not mad at me for last night. I was really looking forward to tonight. I looked at myself in the big two-way mirror, and wondered if I could get my hair done after work. The hairdo I had been using was okay for everyday wear, but I wanted it took look good for tonight, and I had no clue how they managed here without half the gunk I used on my hair back home. While I was looking anyway, I checked my lippy and applied a little more. I rubbed my little finger along my lips and, I confess, wondered what it would be like to have Chris' finger there instead.

I tutted and rolled my eyes at my own reflection before blowing myself a kiss. There really was something to that cupid bow thing that men liked; the forties fashions were actually quite sexy. The whole stocking and suspender belt thing, high heeled shoes, the fitted, accentuating look of the skirts and jackets, they all screamed 'female and proud'.

It's been quite a while since I viewed myself in that way, if I ever really did. I watched my reflection frown and deliberately made myself think of kissing Chris. Without conscious volition on my part, my expression changed to a sweet smile I'd never seen on myself before.

I liked that look a lot better. Note to self: smile more often.

I turned away from the mirror just as I heard something nearby that sounded like a chair scraping on a floor. I kept moving as if I hadn't heard, but sashayed back to my seat. I didn't know who was next door behind the mirror, but I could pretend it was Chris, couldn't I?

Six o'clock finally arrived, I knocked and I stuck my head around the door marked 'DCI Foyle' before I left, but Chris wasn't there. I collected my things and said goodnight to the chap on desk duty before leaving the station.

Walking back along the High Street, I spotted a hairdressing salon, Maison Jules. Its window gave me a view of a black and white tiled floor and a very French-looking style of furniture. Probably never been to France a single day in their life, but Vogue was vogue and people looked to Paris for fashion. And it was 'Open'.

As luck would have it, they were able to fit me in for a wash and style, and within half an hour I was sitting under a dryer, feeling like I was sitting in a noisy hot wind tunnel, and reading a Woman's Own magazine. Living History, it was fantastic.

I didn't go for the Victory Roll; I went for the Rita Hayworth, side-parting, shiny luscious waves. I don't know how the proprietress managed it, but my hair looked amazing.

According to Mrs Summersgill (Jules, I presume), the War is responsible for the elaborate hairdos; people can't afford, or can't even get hold of, new clothes, so they are thinking up ever more elaborate hair to compensate. Even clothing manufacturers are slightly widening shoulder pads to balance out the 'big' hair.

"…it's all very well thinking up these new ideas, but we at the sharp end have to make it work. Personally I prefer some of the simpler classic styles, not because they are easier, but because they often suit the young women better. But the young women today are so confident and sure about what they want; they won't be deterred. Wait until the War is over, there will be trouble at home. The women won't want to go back into the home once they've had a taste of freedom and their own wages. You'll see, mark my words…"

Either Maison Jules is so short of clients that Mrs S has to get all she needs to say out in one go, or she just talks incessantly, either way I learned a lot from her in a very short space of time. Take it from me, she knew her stuff.

My door knocker rattled promptly at seven thirty, and I hurried to the door, pausing only to have a quick spritz of perfume and slip on my heels.

When I opened the door, I was pleased to see Chris standing there, looking smart, as usual.

"Good evening, Lily. You're looking very…umm…yes. Lovely."

I smiled, touched by his compliment, especially the lack of smoothness that said he didn't throw them about too often.

"Thanks, you're looking very dapper, as always. Would you like to come in for a few minutes, or do we have to be off quickly?"

I automatically stood back from the door to let him enter, but he didn't move.

Chris had removed his hat as soon as he saw me. Now he used the forefinger of his free hand to briefly scratch the side of his face as he glanced up the road, before those lovely blue eyes returned to me.

"I think it's…erm…safer if I don't."

Wowzat. So it _was_ mutual. I felt stomach-churningly excited, and _ready _for him.

I gave him a considered look.

"Supposing I don't want you to feel safe?"

Up went the eyebrow, and _there_ was the lop-sided smirk.

"That's as may be, but it wasn't _my_ safety I was concerned about."

What an odd conversation for a doorstep. I leaned forward and lowered my voice.

"Point number one; I trust you not to do anything I don't want you to, and point number two; supposing _I_ don't want to be safe?"

Chris' smile was rueful.

"I've never met anyone like you before, Lily, and I very much doubt that I shall again. However, I'm not coming in, so you'd better come out, and then we can eat, talk, and walk, whatever you like."

Even in less than a week I recognised _that_ tone of voice. Funny how he can be both commanding and respectful at the same time. What a _delish_ man. His ravishment will have to wait.

Sadly for me, it'll have to wait for his future wife.

"Okay, you bully. Let me get my jacket."

"Good."

We decided to walk the long way to the restaurant; detouring wide around the big ack-ack gun emplacements, and getting a smile from the young sentry, then along the seafront because, as Chris pointed out, I obviously needed to cool down. Cheeky monkey.

As we walked, we talked, but not about the frisson between us. By unspoken mutual consent, we kept off provocative subjects, but debated in a lively fashion. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, and Chris appeared to do so too. There were lots of little moments that I enjoyed almost without realising them; the way Chris always put me on the inner side of the pathway, the way he opened the door of the restaurant and let me walk through first, even the way he waited until I was seated before he took his chair. I'd forgotten all the small courtesies that women of this time probably took for granted.

Carlo was pleased to see us again, and I pretended not to notice the 'significant look' that the two men exchanged as he pulled out my chair. I could almost see the smiling Italian's thoughts; _three meals! They must be dating!_

I wish.

I confess I did have a few glasses of Chianti, but only enough to be a little mellow, I was regaining my drinking legs fairly quickly. I allowed myself to enjoy the evening and be me – not so much Lily Davis. Obviously I didn't compromise my work, but I still relaxed. Behind it all though, was a sorrow that this would be our last evening together, just the two of us. It felt to me like I was saying goodbye.

Chris paid for the meal again, this time I didn't even bother to look for my purse; I just said thank-you.

It was dark when we left the restaurant, but the waning moon shone brightly enough to light our way. I automatically turned in the direction of my place, taking the shorter more direct route back, and Chris matched my slower pace.

We had been walking for five minutes or so, but in a companionable silence, partly, I suspect because neither of us wanted to put a voice to what was happening between us.

I was confused about the conflict between what I wanted and what my duty was to this timeline. I had my suspicions about what was happening and why, but I couldn't come out with _that _explanation and still sound sane. As for what Chris was thinking, I had no idea. He was probably brilliant at poker – he had the face for it.

Eventually I figured that one of us had to bite the bullet or hide the gun, so I opened my mouth to speak, but Chris beat me to it.

"When I said, earlier this evening, that I'd never met anyone like you, Lily, I meant exactly that. You're unique. I find you attractive, intelligent, articulate, and I want to know more about you."

I smiled, thinking how much I could return the same compliment, but I sensed from his tone that there was a 'but' coming.

So I made it easy for him.

"But?"

He stopped walking, so I did too. He faced me, and his look was speculative.

"But many things about you are just slightly off-kilter. At first, I confess, I thought you were an exceptionally well coached German spy."

That shocked me. He was good, picking up the otherworldliness, if that's what you'd call it, but I should have anticipated the spy thing.

"What made you change your mind?"

"I haven't, not for sure."

"Gee, thanks."

"You misunderstand. I don't think that you are working for the Germans, but you have some sort of agenda here in Hastings. I just haven't worked out yet what it is."

We started walking again and I was silent while I did a little deep thinking. I sighed.

"I can tell you honestly that I am not a spy. I haven't come here to hurt anyone, or find out anything."

"I hope not, because I have trusted my instincts on this, and I'd hate to be wrong. I've enjoyed our verbal sparring -"

"Have we been sparring? I thought we were flirting!"

Chris smiled.

"That, too. I'd hate to think that I was forming an attachment to the 'enemy'."

"Lucifer was the most charming of all the angels."

Chris' infamous eyebrow went up.

"Not the comfort I'd hoped for."

Hang on. _Forming an attachment?_

Nooo, no no! Not allowed!

"Look, Chris, you can't -"

Before I could finish what I was going to say, there came the unmistakable sound of an air-raid siren building up its warning whine.

Both of us looked up automatically, searching the sky for any sign of the enemy, even as I asked a question I knew was redundant.

"Is it a drill?"

"This time of night? I wouldn't think so."

He didn't really need to answer; I heard the drone of engines high above us, and then, sudden and shocking, there came the distant 'crump' of a bomb hitting the ground and exploding. I actually felt it vibrate in the ground under my feet.

Chris looked around with purpose, probably trying to figure out which was the nearest underground shelter. He took my arm and started to pull me in the direction of my lodging. I knew that there was designated shelter near there, but I knew for certain where we would be safe tonight.

I stopped and pulled his arm back until he faced me. He looked perplexed.

"Chris, listen to me, it's important! If you hadn't met me today, where would you have been right this minute?"

He frowned, clearly puzzled by my question, but also working out the answer.

"Well, if all other circumstances were the same, I'd probably be at home, either reading or asleep."

Quite without thinking, I'd adopted the tone of voice I used at work, when I need facts and _now_, thank you very much.

"Which way to your place?"

Both eyebrows went up this time, and he looked as if he was trying to decide how to handle me.

"We'd be better off in a shelter-"

I shook my head.

"No, I _know _we'll be safe at yours. Come on, hurry!"

He opened his mouth, presumably to protest, but a closer 'crump' made us both jump.

Discretion is the better part of valour, and Chris turned to face a north-easterly direction.

"That way, but we'll have to hurry."

Another booming 'crump' sounded from beyond Rock-a-Nore. This time we could hear the answering 'dum-dum-dum-dum' return fire of the Bofors gun in the grounds of the ruined Hastings Castle above our heads. I muttered under my breath.

"_Y'think?_"

I slipped off my shoes and picked them up in one hand. I'd never be able to run in those heels.

I've been told that I run like a bloke. Not a simpering female girly waddle, but the ground-churning stride of an athlete. Well, with the bombs dropping behind us, Chris and I moved like sprinters holding hands, him in front, leading the way. Very real fear moved through me. Chris was only going to be safe in his house; if we were caught out in the open, we could very easily be killed. Nothing in the old timeline suggested it, but I'd managed to mess that up tonight.

We shot passed several small shops, then turned right up a lane between a garden on the left, I think, and a church on the right. We turned right at the top of the lane and kept running. Of course, it all just had to be uphill, didn't it? Thankfully, just as my lungs were trying to get out of my mouth, Chris leapt up four steps to the door of a curve-fronted house on the corner. He already had a key in his hand, and we both practically fell into the hall, before he closed the door behind us.

I was wheezing with all the grace of an asthmatic phone-sex pest and promised myself if I lived and got back to my own time, I would take up some exercise. Chris seemed in much better nick than me, and could actually speak.

"Lily, get up, we need to get to the Anderson."

I shook my head, still whooping in oxygen.

"No, s'okay. Be safe here."

"You don't know that."

"Do. Safe here."

Despite his best efforts, I refused to go outside to the Anderson shelter, so Chris insisted that we sat in the cupboard under the stairs. He retrieved some blankets and pillows from somewhere upstairs and so we were cosy, if a little cramped, seated as we were, knee to knee. After a few minutes I realised that I was quite thirsty from all that running.

"I suppose a cup of tea is out of the question?"

As we were saving the candle for emergencies, which this obviously wasn't, I couldn't see Chris' expression in the darkness, but his tone conveyed exasperated humour.

"I'm not going to stand in front of a lighted gas stove while the Germans are trying to flatten Hastings."

"I'll take that as a 'no', then. Biscuits?"

"There is a war on, y'know?"

"Umm. Thanks for the reminder; I was trying to distract myself. Do you know any songs? We could -"

I heard Chris move and felt two hands land heavily, one on each of my knees. Just as I was wondering what was happening, he leaned forward and I can only assume that his night vision was better than mine, because his kiss landed exactly on my lips.

To say I was surprised would be an understatement.

I was astonished, and in my astonishment, my wits were scattered. I'd barely begun to comprehend, let alone respond to what was happening before Chris pulled away.

"_Nooo_."

If I'd have had the scattered wits present, I would have realised that Chris thought I was saying 'no, don't touch me', as opposed to what I was actually thinking 'nooo, don't go away'.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't -"

"Yes! You should."

In a single movement I slipped to my knees, blindly grabbed for Chris' lapels and pulled him down to the floor with me. In a wholly inappropriate manner I yanked him towards me, and hoped that my aim was at least as accurate as his.

It was.

It was a kiss like no other. Once he realised that he wasn't going to get his face slapped, Chris devoted his famous concentration to the task in hand. A slow, lazy exploration, nonthreatening but gently determined; he was the virtuoso, and I his instrument. I lost track of everything but the two of us. I didn't even notice that one of my hands had drifted up into the little curls at the back of his neck or that his hand was in my hair, removing bobby pins so that he could stroke the silken strands. It seemed perfectly natural when he deepened the kiss and I made him welcome.

All the waxing lyrical came later. At the time I was in my own little bubble, insulated from everything else, uncaring of anything else, and I'm embarrassed to admit that it was not me that called a halt to things. Chris finally and gently pulled away from me, holding on to my arms so that I couldn't pull him back into them. His voice was a gentle whisper.

"Lily, _no_, we must stop."

Lily? _Lily?_

"W-what? Why?"

I felt, rather than heard, him chuckle.

"We are in a cupboard under the stairs, and the air-raid is over. Didn't you hear the all clear siren?"

_Christ! I never even heard the last bombs, let alone the siren._

"N-no, sorry." Was that breathy voice mine? "I guess I was a little distracted."

I wished I could see Chris' face more easily. The brief silence before he spoke told me a great deal, but his eyes would have told me more. His hands on my arms sort of rubbed me gently, a 'there, there' kind of gesture of comfort.

Completely at odds with what I had felt when we were plastered together, chest to thighs.

Chris cleared his throat, a betraying gesture.

"Then I should be grateful that my distraction worked, shouldn't I?"

Oh, is _that_ what it was? Then, yes, it bloody well worked.

"Well, yes, I guess you should. Your…_distraction_…seemed to be in fine working order. Thank you."

"_Lily_."

The gently amused admonishment did not make me repentant. Score one for me.

"_Christopher_."

"You're annoyed with me. Is it because I stopped…distracting you, or because I demonstrated a lack of respect for you by kissing you in the first place?"

"Do you lack respect for me?"

I felt his forehead rest against mine, felt his breath against my lips.

"Quite the contrary, I hold you in great esteem -"

"Except for the whole 'not trusting' thing."

Chris continued as if I'd not spoken.

"…_but_ if it had been my intention to seduce you, I would have made sure of two things."

I tried to snuggle a little closer while he was talking, but he fielded me like a pro.

_Rats._

"Mmm?"

"One, I would have made sure that we were not in a cupboard under the stairs during an air-raid and two, I would have made sure that you were a free and willing partner to the seduction."

_Oh, if only you knew how free and willing I am!_

"I'm not seeing anyone, if that's what you mean. I'm a free agent. Well, not an _agent_, but free, yes."

"Then who is 'Mike'?"

TBC.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Foyle's War is not my property. Characters and original script from the series used without permission, but no infringement is intended.

Rating: 14+ A or T

Author: hazeleyes57

A/N: Continues straight after last chapter; still in the cupboard under the stairs!

**What will be – part five **

"Then who is Mike?"

My mind went a complete blank and the desire that had been such a commanding presence a moment ago faded into the background. Reality struck as hard as if it had been a physical blow.

I must have murmured Mike's name while we were…oh, great Heavens. I've never been so caught up that I've said anyone's name in those circumstances, let alone the _wrong_ one.

"Good grief, I am _so_ sorry!"

Embarrassed, I scrambled in the gloom to get to my feet; said feet were tangled in the blankets, but I stood up anyway, completely forgetting in my haste that we were under the stairs.

"Wait!"

Chris' warning was quick, but not quick enough to prevent me banging my head. I saw stars for a moment, but my thick hair saved me from the worst of it.

I pushed open the door and staggered out into the hall. Chris followed with what sounded like a lot more grace and crossed to the light switch. Even the dim bulb seemed too bright after sitting in the dark for so long.

"Let me look at your head; you might have cut yourself."

I stood still under his scrutiny, his soft touch delicately probing over my scalp until he found the emerging duck's egg. Despite everything, the backburnered desire still trickled through me.

While I was looking at the floor, with Chris' hands on my head, I answered his earlier question.

"Mike is someone I work – worked – with, before I came here. He's a friend, but we've never dated or anything. He's just a friend."

The hands stilled, then withdrew with that same patient gentleness.

"Then why…?"

I looked up into the face that was becoming so dear to me. I honestly didn't know why, so what could I tell him?

The truth. Up to a point, anyway.

"I don't know. Though…you do look quite alike."

"Hmm."

I was still looking at Chris and could actually see the reserve return to his face. He was distancing himself from me and it hurt like hell.

"Please don't look at me like _that._ I don't have feelings for Mike; I've never kissed him, I've never even _imagined _kissing him."

That much was the truth.

Gawd, how did this man manage to convey so much with just a _look?_ The subtlest of movements and his face just _said _so much.

Without a moment's thought I laid a hand on his arm, trying to plead my case.

"I've been kissed before; more times than I care to remember. But I can tell you that I have never experienced anything like the kiss I just shared with _you, Christopher Foyle_, before. And it grieves me mightily that I may never do so again. I -"

To my utter horror, I couldn't finish what I was saying. The emotion rushed up to choke me, and I couldn't speak. For the first time in my life I felt so overwhelmed that I couldn't hold it all inside and I gulped out a sobbing breath. Then another. I put both hands on my mouth to contain the awful noise, but it wouldn't stop. This was ridiculous; I don't bawl like a baby; I'm the quintessential Ice Queen.

A distant rational part of my brain was trying to excuse my behaviour as shock, or a result of the bang on my head, but it didn't matter, it was simply _happening_.

Chris must have seen something of my dismay in my eyes. His whole stance softened and his face moved with sympathy. It was my undoing when he slid his arms around me and simply held me while I cried.

I don't know how long we stood there, but eventually I ran dry and began to feel a little silly. Women in films can cry prettily; lovely clear eyes with tears welling up and trailing daintily down peachy cheeks. In reality, I expect my eyes are red and my face blotchy. I don't even want to think about a runny nose. Chris moved briefly, and once again I found myself in possession of a pristine white handkerchief that was warm and smelled, wonderfully, of him.

"Thanks…I haven't returned your other one yet."

The comforting rumble of his voice was under my ear and my chest.

"Never mind, I have enough to spare."

He didn't let me go, but he pulled back so that we could see each other, and he surveyed my face.

"Better?"

I nodded. Strangely enough, it was true.

"Sorry; I don't do that sort of thing, usually."

"Then you needed it more than most. Come on; let's get you that cup of tea."

Now that we weren't in the middle of a raid, I took the opportunity to take in my surroundings as we moved through the hall to the kitchen. It was an oddly shaped house, but I liked it. It still retained Rosalind's touch, Chris hadn't let it slide away, which was an admirable achievement for a man and a boy left alone so long ago.

I could imagine living in a house like this if it included some of my modern gadgets subtly tucked away.

I sighed, and tried to make it silent. This would become Sam's home and she would be very happy here with her husband, and their children.

Chris made a pot of tea and let it brew while he retrieved the blankets and pillows from under the stairs. He disappeared with them, so I assumed that he was taking them back where they belonged. I heard him moving about upstairs, then the sound of him returning down the stairs. I took two cups and saucers from the kitchen dresser and placed them on the table by the teapot.

Chris fetched some milk from the pantry and then poured out our tea. I didn't bother with my sweetener; this man was altogether more shrewd than his driver.

As I tried my first sip of the still scalding drink, Chris seated himself opposite me at the table, and regarded me evenly. I knew without a doubt that I was about to be asked something I wouldn't want to answer; at least not with the truth.

"How did you know?"

I tried to look innocent.

"Know what?"

He gave a single shake of his head, but didn't say anything for a long minute, letting the silence work for him. Finally, he stirred.

"How did you know that we would be safe here in the house?"

I tried to keep my gaze on him, but my eyes wouldn't obey.

"I didn't, not really. I guess I just assumed…"

"Hmm."

I hid behind my cup, but the tea was too hot to drink yet. I waited in an agony of anticipation for the grilling I expected, but to my surprise, Chris didn't pursue the subject. That _really_ worried me; he was filing it away for further consideration.

I needed some sort of a diversion.

"This is a lovely house."

Chris knew the distraction for what it was. He raised both eyebrows and inclined his head.

_This isn't over._

"Thank you. I like it too."

We took our tea into the front room where Chris had already checked the blackout before putting on the lights. The room was another example of history come to life and it suddenly dawned on me that this wasn't the 'past' or a historical adventure to Chris; this was his _life_.

And I was the one messing it up.

"I'm sorry, Chris. Really sorry."

He looked mildly amused.

"What for? Kissing me? Or calling me 'Mike'?"

I couldn't bear it if he thought that I was sorry I'd kissed him.

"Like I said, I've never had a kiss like it before and I mean that in a good way. A _great_ way."

_A bloody fantastic shagadelic way, if you must know. _

"Glad I didn't disappoint."

I hated his tone; it felt to me that he was belittling the whole episode under the stairs as something trivial and meaningless. I opened my mouth to put the record straight, but closed it again with the words unsaid.

Wasn't this what I wanted? I needed to make sure Chris didn't fall for me, like I was falling for him?

_Oh leaping lizards; it's true, I'm breaking one of the big rules. _

"How long are you planning to stay?"

I must have looked blank; did he mean in the house?

"In Hastings?"

_Days, at most. _

"I don't know. My…family…usually dictate my movements."

Chris frowned as he looked at me. I couldn't tell what he was thinking because he had chosen not to let me see what he was thinking.

I decided to jump before I was pushed, so I finished my tea in the awkward silence and then went to get up.

I say _went_ to get up, because I never quite made it. I felt a little giddy as I stood, and sort of swayed a bit while my vision went spotty and my hearing faded out. I fell back down rather than _sat_, but the effect was the same.

I didn't see him move, but Chris was at my side a moment later. Concern was etched on his face and I felt weepy again for what was lost.

"Stay still for a few minutes; it's probably reaction to the bang on your head. Do you have a headache?"

I thought about it. Was it a headache or an aching head?

"Not really. I'll be okay in a moment."

I looked at him. We'd shared the most amazing kiss _ever_, and I'd ruined his evening. Now I was having a fit of the vapours on his sofa. I needed to be back in my bed so that I could indulge in my new-found hobby of blubbing.

"Are you sure?"

_That I want to blub? Oh yeah._

"Yes, thank you, I'm certain. I need to get going anyway."

He did that finger scratch contemplative thing as he looked at me.

"Umm, I…er…don't think that would be wise."

"What wouldn't be wise?"

I braced myself to get up. Chris hesitated and I saw his hand twitch for a split second, as if he was going prevent me getting to my feet.

"You've had a bang on the head; I don't think that you should be alone."

_Oh merciful Heavens please don't say things like that! I'm not made of stone. If you come home with me, I'll end up doing something my boss will regret._

I made myself smile reassuringly.

"I'll be fine. You don't even have to come with me; in fact, I'd prefer it if -"

My preferences not only didn't manage to get out of my mouth, but they were summarily overruled anyway.

"There's no question that I would take you home if that was where you were going, but this is a coastal town and, as such, extra security procedures are in place."

I leaned back on the sofa and closed my eyes briefly.

"Oh, please don't tell me that you have a curfew. I need to go _home._"

When I opened my eyes again I caught a glimpse of a look of…well, the best way to describe it would be _discomforted satisfaction._ I think part of him was pleased that I was stuck here. I wasn't privy to which part that would be…

"It's past eleven; too late now. I'm sorry."

He didn't sound sorry.

"You're a policeman, a DCI, won't they let you though?"

Chris looked at me with surprise.

"Possibly, if I had movement papers on me. What would be your excuse for being out?"

"I don't know. You've arrested me? I've been very disorderly?"

Chris smiled, possibly despite himself, and weak pushover that I am, I gave up, almost gracefully.

"Oh, all right, you win. I'll stay…"

But I couldn't resist adding cheekily,

"…where do you want me?"

Chris didn't answer, but his expression told me that I was treading on thin ice.

Woof!

However, as potential seducers go, he was bottom of the class. He showed me where the bathroom was upstairs, and took me along the landing to a large bedroom that faced the front of the house. Two tall windows were blacked out, but a bedside light showed me a big double bed where I had expected a single. I turned to Chris with an inquiring gaze. He didn't bother to misunderstand me.

"You'll be more comfortable here; I'll be in the other room on this floor, next to the bathroom. If you need anything, just call. I'll put out a toothbrush for you; I always have some new ones handy in case Andrew forgets his."

There were many things I wanted to say, but contented myself with a 'thank you' and didn't stop him from pulling the door shut behind him as he left.

I sighed; I seemed to be doing a lot of it lately, and then got up to have a sneaky look around the room. The two tall windows turned out to be doors, possibly going onto a balcony; I couldn't remember seeing one during our hasty arrival. I'd bet that there was lots of light in here in the summer.

The bedside table on the far side of the bed contained a framed picture of a dark-haired woman who was young and pretty. Chris' late wife, Rosalind, I presume.

I moved back around the end of the bed and a floorboard moved noisily as I walked over it. I froze, looking at the door, half expecting Chris to return, but he didn't. Out of my usual curiosity I knelt and looked at the loose plank of wood. It was secured at both ends by flat-sided nails that were old even for this time period. The nail at one end was not doing its job properly and the short plank moved up and down in place, making it squeak slightly.

I got up again. I didn't have the tools to fix it, so I moved on.

Five minutes later I'd seen all that I wanted to. I went to the bathroom and used one of the new toothbrushes, but the toothpaste tasted awful. It made me clean my teeth more thoroughly just to get rid of the taste.

Having finished my ablutions I dawdled back to 'my' room. I didn't see Chris anywhere, so I guessed that he was downstairs. He had been busy in my absence though, as there was a clean pair of pyjamas folded on the bed.

Blast; I'd obviously missed his return visit.

I changed quickly into the Pj's, and hung my own clothes carefully over a chair so that they wouldn't look slept in tomorrow morning. I had to grin to myself. What would the neighbours think about a woman seen leaving the respectable police officer's house early in the morning?

Depends who was watching, I suppose. The blokes would think 'lucky sod, he got a bit last night' and the women would think 'loose tart; how dare she walk out there, bold as brass'.

Both wrong, sadly for me. Still, at least I could honestly say I'd got into Chris' pyjamas.

Just a pity he's not in them.

I slid into Chris' bed, which was surprisingly comfortable. The blankets were heavier than I was used to, which made me feel a little constricted, but I was cold and reluctant to take off any layers.

The bump on my head was quick to remind me that it was still there when I laid my head on the pillow, so that meant I had to lie on my back and it took me ages to fall asleep that way.

I don't remember falling asleep; who does? But the next thing I knew I was being gently shaken awake from a horrible nightmare about being buried in the cupboard under the stairs with tons of rubble over me. I was very hot because a gas leak was burning beside me, but Chris was sitting, quite unconcernedly drinking tea in the front room while his stairs burst into flames.

"_Lily, wake up_!"

_Lily? Oh, that's me. Where am I? Light too bright! Bedroom. Ah, yes, Chris' house. _

I requested information in my usual crisp fashion.

"W-what? Wazzhappn'?"

Chris was standing beside the bed. He wore pale blue Pj's and a dark blue dressing gown – pleasingly undone.

_Get a grip, and not on your companion here._

"You were having a nightmare by the sound of it; screaming that you were being buried and burned."

I realised that I was roasting hot because of the blankets now and I did feel trapped by their weight.

"Sorry; had no idea. Not used to this many blankets."

I watched him look down along the bed and coincidentally, my outline. I mentally drifted; a happy victim of impure thoughts.

"Do you want me to remove one?"

_What? Remove what? My clothes? Oh, I thought you'd never ask._

"Sorry?"

I had the distinct impression that he knew exactly where my thoughts had wandered. He wasn't smiling as such, yet I could tell that he was amused.

"Blankets, Lily, would you like me to take one off the bed. You really are incorrigible."

I grinned lazily, much more awake now, with my panic fading.

"Well, stop incorriging me."

Chris rolled his eyes, pulled back the counterpane and draped it over the footboard of the bed. It was much better.

"Thanks. Sorry to wake you."

"No matter. Will you be all right now?"

_Only if you don't go back to your bed. Stay here with me._

"I think so."

He nodded once before turning towards the door. Damn him for being polite and respectful. Why couldn't he give me the opportunity to defend my honour?

_Probably because he is of the opinion I wouldn't fight too hard. _

He'd be right.

I let him get as far as the door before I said his name. He turned and looked at me, a little warily. I didn't let it deter me.

"Are you tired? Sleepy, I mean?"

Chris kept his hand on the doorknob and his whole body signaled conflict. After a moment, his shoulders dropped into a relaxed position. He let go of the door and turned back to me.

"No, not especially. I'm used to less sleep, I assume. You?"

"Wide awake now."

I looked at him – _really_ looked at him. I could see that he was torn between what might be happening here between us and what was going on in his heart, but his relaxed shoulders told me that he was prepared to face whatever happened and deal with it.

I shouldn't be messing with his head. I ought to be staying out of everyone's way; keeping the lowest of low profiles and not causing waves.

But I kept remembering Sam's diaries. How happy she was, even when things weren't perfect. How much they obviously loved each other. _Something_ had triggered in Foyle the possibility of his affections being returned and he had acted on it. Oddly, I now found that my desire for Chris had sort of stepped sideways; it was still there under the surface, but my sense of duty had superseded it. I _think_ I'm thinking rationally.

I scooted up until I was only semi-reclined on the pillows – keeping my modesty intact at the same time for his sake. I patted the bed covers beside me.

"Come and sit. In fact, pull the counterpane over you, you look a little chilled."

Up went the eyebrow. He hesitated briefly, clearly still torn.

"Erm, I don't think…this…"

"C'mon, Chris, it's okay; I don't bite - unless you insist."

The other eyebrow joined the first.

"Hmm."

But he walked around the bed; the floorboard squeaked again, and he got on the other side of the bed. He pulled the cover up to his waist and then he too lay back on the pillows. I was under the bedding and he was on top. We were appropriately and modestly separated, yet intimately placed. It was right for what I wanted to say.

"I want to ask you something, and I would like you to think before you answer my question. Okay?"

"Very well."

It took me another few moments to figure out how to tackle my approach.

"Do you intend being alone for the rest of your life?"

I think I shocked him. He looked at me as if he was trying to figure out whether I was fishing for a marriage proposal or simply being intrusively rude.

When he didn't say anything, I continued.

"You've spoken eloquently about your late wife and I don't doubt for a moment that you still miss her; will always miss her, but do you think that she would want you to be alone?"

Chris found his voice at last, but I could tell that he was uncomfortable with the subject. Possibly it wasn't very tactful of me to be having this discussion while we were both lying in the matrimonial bed, so to speak.

"Rosalind was kind and generous in nature. I think that she would expect me to move on eventually, as I would her, if our positions were reversed. But, as you said yourself, nine years isn't long in the big scheme of things."

"No, it's not."

_Except to a nine-year-old._

I could see his point, especially age-wise; would I want to start looking again when I had life on an even keel, no surprises, no shocks or upsets?

But also missing out on all the highs and lows of a new relationship, the excitement, the anticipation?

I needed to tackle this from another angle before I depressed myself.

"Do you go to church?"

Chris looked at me as if to say '_doesn't everyone?'._

"Yes, yes I do."

"You believe in the immortal soul?"

"Yes."

"You understand the concept of 'soulmates'?"

Chris frowned as he thought.

"Yes, I do. The idea that two souls are ideally made for each other; the perfect

partners."

"Right. Have you ever thought about how you would reconcile that principle with the idea of meeting another partner or companion after someone is widowed?"

Chris looked a little taken aback. I genuinely think he's never considered the matter.

"N…no, I haven't. Have you?"

"I have, but not with regard to me, because I haven't met mine yet."

_At least, not in this life._

Chris gave me a very considering look.

"What did you decide?"

I turned on my side to face him, searching his features, committing them to memory.

"Well, I think that the reason _some_ people marry a particular person, is that they feel very _comfortable_ with them. They _fit_ each other with the familiarity of a foot in a shoe. They feel okay together and their lives tick along nicely and they are happy. Everything has a degree of contentment, even the sex."

Chris had been nodding as I was talking, but gave me an odd look when I got to the last word. I know that there are all sorts of polite euphemisms for the horizontal boogie (it paints such a picture, doesn't it?), but I'm guessing the 's' word is a little blunt for the well brought up ladies of the 1940's. Ah well, it's said now.

If what I suspect is true – and I'm increasingly of the opinion that I am right – then Chris knows on some level exactly what I mean.

"With me so far?"

Chris also turned on his side and propped his pillows up so that he could lean on his left hand as he looked at me.

"Yes. These are our soulmates?"

_Ah, thought so!_

"Yes and no. If you imagine that a soul enters a body at some point after conception – setting aside the debate about _when_ exactly – and then returns from whence it came after death, then there must be a collective of souls not actually inhabiting bodies somewhere in the celestial ether, right?"

"Yeeess, I assume so."

"Good. Then two souls that were near each other in the collective will 'know' each other and be familiar with each other, like neighbours, if you will."

He nodded dubiously, but also frowned.

"You said 'yes and no'."

_I know I'm going to cause him some pain in a moment, but I mean no disrespect to Rosalind. I hope he understands that._

"This is the 'no' option; they are not true soulmates, they are companion-souls, and there's nothing wrong with that at all, especially if you're both happy and unaware of the bigger picture."

Chris was quiet. He rolled onto his back and brought his hand up to rub at his forehead. He looked troubled, but I gave him time to come to terms with it.

His questions were hesitant and quiet, almost as if he were thinking aloud.

"How…do you know…? What difference…? Can you tell…?"

"I can't tell you from personal experience. All I think, from talking to friends back…home…is that there is what I call 'sparkage'; the extra spring in your step, the fizz in your Champagne, the sparkle in the eyes. It was described to me by a good friend when I was doing my training. She met her soulmate. On the one hand, because she had met him when she was so young, she was worried that he might not consider her mature enough for him, as he was fifteen years her senior, but on the other hand, she was thrilled that knew that she had met her mate. Sara had to wait ten years for him, but they're still together now, years later."

"Are they really happy?"

"Giddy. Well, Sara is. Her husband is a little more sedate about the whole thing, but he's never been one that was easy to read, except by her, of course. But when you see them together, well, it's just…magic."

_And that's how it will be with you and Sam, my dear Mr Foyle._

I'm sure now that this is at least part of why I had to be here. I didn't think that there would have been anyone here to tell Chris that there could be _more _to life for him. Sam isn't quite 'old' enough yet to tackle Foyle head on, but this war will mature her quicker than the average young woman in her early twenties.

Chris had been quiet for a while and I wondered what he was thinking. It occurred to me – a little late – that he might take it into his head to think that I might be on about the two of us.

My logic told me that I should chivvy him back to the other bedroom so we both could get some sleep, but my instincts wanted him to stay with me in our chaste cocoon, and let us take the only comfort that our circumstances would allow; that of companionship.

Finally Chris stirred and turned back to me. I had the distinct impression that he had been holding back tears, as his eyes looked a little red, but he didn't cry. Men of their era don't, do they?

I needn't have worried.

"If I have understood it correctly, you are telling me we should look for…magic."

I smiled, but I have a worrying feeling that it was more tremulous that I would have liked.

"Yes. Magic, sparkage, zippitydoodah, you'll hear violins long before the music starts; you'll want to dance all night."

"Magic, instead of comfort?"

"Magic _as well_ _as_ comfort."

"What if I don't recognise it? Or the other person doesn't feel the same way?"

"Sara recognised it, but had to wait for ten years for Gil to recognise it; or at least believe it. She had to wait for him to grow up."

Chris frowned again.

"I thought you said that he was older than her."

"Only in years."

"Ah."

More forehead rubbing followed.

"And you say that you've never experienced it yourself?"

I could see what he was thinking – if we were soulmates, would I recognise him?

I shook my head and prayed that he wouldn't see that I was lying.

"Hmm. Right. Well, thank you, you've given me quite a bit to think about."

Chris looked like he was about to leave. Without trying to look as if I was desperate, I put my hand on his arm, lightly enough that he could shake me off if he wanted to.

He looked askance at me.

"Don't go. If you don't mind, I'd rather not be alone tonight."

Poor man. It was obvious that he was getting mixed signals from me; I'm betting he didn't know what to think now. He sounded a little torn.

"Lily…"

"I know, I know. I promise that I'll tell everyone that you were a perfect gentleman and didn't lay a finger on me the entire night we spent together in your bedroom."

Spluttered laughter escaped from my companion.

"_Lily!_"

The mattress dipped slightly as Chris settled back down and pulled the top cover back over him. He faced me and I could see his lips purse with amusement.

"I think I'd prefer it if you didn't tell anyone that I was a perfect gentleman…"

I grinned, and scooted as close as I could with that many blankets between us.

"Okay, I'll tell them you were an animal in bed and I'm exhaust-"

"_**Lily!"**_

The admonishment was firmer, but still laced with humour.

"Please don't tell them anything. We don't need to even mention that you were here at all. Think of your reputation, for goodness sake."

"Yes, Boss."

"That's better – or a start, at least. Now please put the light out, so that we can get some sleep."

I did as I was bid, and we settled together but separately under the covers.

"Goodnight Chris."

"Goodnight, Lily, sleep well."

Again, I didn't recall falling asleep, but I was perfectly aware when I woke up in the wee hours and found myself warmly embraced from behind, the soft susurration of Chris' breath on my neck. Somehow we had also managed to end up with my left hand in his right, our palms touching and our fingers interlinked.

It was as I suspected and feared.

_Sparkage._

TBC.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Foyle's War is subject to copyright and is not owned by me. Characters shaken and stirred, but returned after playtime.

Author: hazeleyes57

Rating: A or T – mild sexual themes, nothing terrible.

A/N: Still September 1940.

**What will be – part six **

When I woke up in the morning I was alone. The heavy counterpane lay neatly folded on the foot of the bed. For a long moment, I wondered if I had imagined last night. I pulled the pillow over from the other side of the bed on to my face and sniffed.

Well, I did have some detective genes in me, didn't I?

Given how I would have liked last night to turn out, that could have had made quite an amusing _double-entendre_, but I digress. The pillow did smell – deliciously – of Chris. Shaving soap of some kind; but then it occurred to me that this was Chris' bed, so _of course_ it would smell of him.

However, I'm fairly certain that I hadn't dreamt last night.

The blackout was still in place, so no light filtered in from outside. Needing the bathroom, I got out of bed and hurried over to the door on tiptoes, hoping to minimize contact with the cool, bare floorboards. The landing was clear and lit by daylight as Chris – presumably - had already opened the thick curtains at the window.

Much as I love history as a subject and the Second World War as a specific, I'm really a child of my time. I like my home warm and my milk cold. As I scampered – yes, even I can still scamper – to the bathroom, I thought longingly of my walk-in shower and heated fluffy towels.

"_Kerriisst!"_

Oh, and while I'm wishing, I _really_ miss my heated loo seat.

When I met Chris downstairs for breakfast twenty minutes later, he was just pouring out two cups of tea. Bliss, just what I needed. He looked surprisingly domesticated in his shirtsleeves and tie-less. He noticed me dithering in the doorway and smiled gently.

"Good Morning. Did you sleep well?"

I nodded as I took a chair at the kitchen table.

"Like a log; woke up in the fire."

Chris frowned as he added a little milk to the tea.

I have to remember not to use inappropriate phrases; it marks me out as different. Not for the first time I wonder how I could have been deliberately picked for this job, when my best friends know that I have no governor on my mouth. Loose lips might sink ships, but I'd be responsible for sinking the whole fleet. I sighed.

"Sorry; I slept very well, thank you. Are you all right?"

"Thank you, yes."

_Oh how terribly polite and British we are being this morning. We will pretend that we didn't sleep cocooned together in his bed, even if several yards of sturdy Egyptian cotton kept us apart._

He turned back to the cooker, where I could see that he was frying some eggs.

"Have I upset you?"

Chris looked surprised.

"Not at all. I'm sorry that you were forced into having to stay here last night, but I'm relieved to see that your bumped head seems to have left no permanent damage. Eggs?"

"Please."

Chris brought two warm plates to the table; fried bread, fried eggs and fried tomatoes. I managed to hide my alarm at the fried everything, but then realised that here and now fat equalled energy. There would be very little in the way of processed food available for snacking; working and staying warm would use up most of the calories here on my plate.

"Thank-you."

We ate in silence and drank our tea. When we had finished, I got to my feet quickly and, courteous as always, Chris followed suit. I hurried into speech.

"Thanks for breakfast, and for not leaving me on my own last night; all joking aside, I won't mention anything at work. I'm sorry for any hassle that you'll get from your neighbours. If I leave now, I can go home before I go to work and still get there for eight, if that's okay with you? At least that way we won't be walking in to work together."

Chris looked as if he was going to say something, but he didn't. Obviously changed his mind.

He nodded once instead.

"Very well. I'll see you later at work."

I collected my coat, gloves and bag, and Chris saw me to the door.

I said my goodbye in the hallway. I didn't want to let myself have any lingering glances on the doorsteps, or do anything the old biddies could grumble about later.

A full-on snog would have been wonderful, but I wouldn't have stopped at that, and then the biddies _would_ really have had something to moan about.

And it would have left Chris even more confused about what I was up to.

All the way back to my place, I lectured myself on my duty and the top five rules for Working in Time. I'm pretty sure I've broken at least two of them; one in spirit if not in deed.

It was a lovely morning; the sunshine lifted my spirits a little, and the walk was soothing. I'll say two things for walking everywhere; first, you sure get to admire scenery that you wouldn't see when you whizzed past it on wheels and second, you get time to _think._ While I was walking to the police station from my lodgings I thought about waking up this morning and my physical reaction to finding Chris holding me. Even now, I could feel residual tingling at the memory of his body behind me, his arms around me and his hand in mine. No-one had made me feel like that_, ever_.

It made my real life seem lonely, and I didn't like the feeling.

Sam will have Foyle to make her feel that sparkle one day and I felt an irrational flash of jealously. Not of Sam, per se, but of the relationship that the two of them would enjoy for as long as they did; will do, would do…

Now even my grammar is abandoning me.

I found myself thinking about the future; more specifically, _my_ future. I realised that somewhere in the last ten years I had given up on me. I'd drifted into the premise that I was 'past it', I suppose. I hadn't met Mr Right, but that wasn't a surprise really, when you consider I wasn't looking for him anyway. I didn't need anyone; I could function on my own perfectly well, but…

If I could meet someone like Chris, or at least, someone who made me feel the way he did, then I'd consider myself bloody lucky to have met two such men. You can't force a square peg in to a round hole, but being with Chris had made me realise that I was capable of feeling that _passion _for someone. It was a liberating thought and opened up a world of possibilities.

I remembered what I'd said to Chris about soul mates and soul-companions last night and it occurred to me that I should be listening to my own advice.

_Blimey_.

So it was with quite a jaunty step that I walked into the police station and greeted the desk Sergeant before hanging up my coat and heading for my office. A pile of work had already made its way to my desk; God knows what they'll all do when I've gone.

I became immersed in an interesting case I was typing up and quite forgot the rest of the world until I heard a tap on my door. When I looked up Sam was standing in the doorway. She was in her working disguise, tan coloured overalls, but carrying her brown beret.

"Sam! How lovely to see you; how's the big case that I know nothing about going?"

She grinned and stepped into the room.

"Absolutely hush-hush, can't breathe a word. Have you had your tea yet?"

I looked at my watch, surprised that so much time had passed. I stood.

"No, I haven't, yet. You have time for one?"

"Always!"

We chatted about non-work subjects until we had our tea poured, then we went back to my office with our cups. My nose involuntarily wrinkled at the strong smell of fuel on her clothes as she passed me.

Sam was quick to notice, her smile was rueful.

"Sorry about the awful pong; the stuff gets into your skin and no amount of scrubbing seems to shift it."

"Don't worry; it doesn't bother me that much. Though with those fumes, I'm guessing that now would be a good time to give up smoking, if one was ever daft enough to start."

Sam looked slightly startled.

"How did you know that I smoked?"

It was my turn to be startled. I hadn't known; it wasn't in her diaries.

"I didn't; it was just a joke about naked flames and petrol fumes; please take no notice."

I should have guessed that Sam wouldn't let it drop – that inquisitive mind on the go as usual.

"…and what's so daft about smoking? All the Hollywood stars think it's good for you, it's all the rage."

_Because it causes cancer, Sam, and most of those Hollywood people will suffer accordingly. But I can't tell you that, can I?_

"Well, it occurred to me that kissing a young man who smokes would taste like kissing an ashtray."

Sam pulled a face.

"I hadn't thought of it like that."

"I wouldn't lie down behind a car and inhale in the exhaust fumes, so why would I breathe in the _same_ stuff with tobacco rolled up in paper?"

Sam looked taken aback.

"I know exhaust fumes are dangerous, but cigarettes aren't harmful, surely?"

I shrugged. I'd already said more than I should have.

"So, how's it going with you? Any nice men snapped you up at the depot, yet?"

Sam's tone was warily suspicious.

"How did you know I was working at a depot?"

_Err, good point._

Fortunately, I recovered before she did. I nodded at her outfit and sniffed, then raised both eyebrows innocently.

"Bit of a giveaway, really."

"Oh, of course, gosh, I really am an absolute tizz today. Things are hotting up; I've just been to see Mr Foyle and Milner and given them an update, but you don't know that."

"My lips are sealed. I also type with my eyes shut so that I don't read anything I shouldn't either."

I grinned and Sam burst out laughing.

"Of course; see, absolute tizz, I didn't even think of that. If Mr Foyle didn't trust you, you wouldn't be here, would you?"

_She seems surer of that than I am._

Sam said her farewells and went back to her undercover work. After she had left, I went through my brain bank for the reports and Sam's diary entries. If I was in the right place, there would be a bit of a kafuffle at the Flamingo Club tonight and Connie Dewar would not be at work tomorrow. Or ever again.

My first thought was to wish that there was something I could do to save her and Rex; there was the crux of why I'd failed the Field Agent test – difficult, if not impossible to let the good die. But I had to. It would irreparably damage the Timeline if Connie lived; she and her child had no place in it, and heaven alone knows how it could alter my future if Andrew dies in the dogfight when Rex isn't there to assist him.

It certainly put things into perspective.

For the rest of the day I kept my head down and my nose to the grindstone. As soon as I'd finished my work at about five, I left the station as unobtrusively as possible and hurried home. If Chris wanted to see me tonight, I had to be unavailable or out already, I couldn't risk giving in to my temptation. What was also worrying me was that I hadn't seen either of the two Field Agents yet. If they were going to do – or not do – something, surely I had to fix it. For that, I needed to know what it was.

After my evening meal I washed up and left the few dishes to drain. I couldn't risk the radio being heard, so I had a look through the few books that had been left in the spare bedroom. If I read in the bath, I wouldn't have time to get to the door before whoever was calling would leave. If anyone called. If _Chris_ called. I needed security in place to prevent my going to him. God, I'm pathetic. As a temporary practising Field Agent I should have nerves of steel. At the moment I doubt mine would qualify as Bacofoil. Or Aluminium foil as my American chums would say.

_Chums? _ _I swear it's contagious._

I shuffled through the books on the shelf and discarded most of them as not my cup of tea until I reached the end and found a wonderful collection of H.G. Wells; The War of the Worlds, The Invisible Man, and my favourite, The Time Machine. Ha! Who would have guessed – a fellow sci-fi lover.

Taking one of the books I went back downstairs to the bathroom beyond the scullery. Without worrying about the water limits advised for baths (my bad, I know, I know), I filled the tub with lovely hot water and dropped some of my own bath oil tabs under the running water. Barely the size of a fingernail and easy to smuggle in a pocket, they contained concentrated oil and perfume. I chose lavender for relaxation and within seconds of the tabs dissolving under the running taps, the fragrant smell filled the warm air.

I returned to the kitchen and poured out a mug of tea from the pot I'd made before running the bath. A SuSub and some milk, a quick stir and I was ready for my soak.

Five minutes later I eased myself into the hot water and sighed with pleasure.

Hot bath, hot tea, and a book that was an old favourite. What more could I ask for?

_Company._

I ignored the sneaky mind-voice, determined to hang on to my enjoyment. I dried my hands and picked up the book. It felt quite odd to pick up such an old book and have it in such good condition that I didn't have to worry about damaging it. I checked the front and found that this edition was published only six years previously. I frowned. H. died August thirteenth, 1946. I shook my head with disbelief, though I shouldn't have been surprised.

He was still alive in 1940.

So he must have heard about Orson Welles' reading of 'War of the Worlds' over the radio on Halloween in 1938 causing panic in New York. I wonder if he rang him up and told him off? Or laughed?

I picked up my tea and settled into my book.

I wasn't wearing my watch, so I didn't know exactly what time the knocking on the front door finally dragged me out of the book; I put it down but I didn't get out of the bath.

The knocks came a couple of times, but whoever it was eventually gave up.

I hugged my knees while I sat in the cooling water and pretended not to notice the tears falling.

_If this is love, I'm not sure I'm strong enough to cope with it._

Eventually I got out of the bath and pulled the plug. I felt cold and miserable, which was stupid, because it might not even have been Chris at the door. I'd be surprised if he wanted to see me again in a 'walking out' sense after last night and, God knows, I shouldn't be encouraging him, but…I missed him.

_Pity party for one in the bathroom. Would you like whine with that, madam?  
_

I went to bed and read until I kept nodding off mid sentence and hit myself with the book for the third time, at which point I turned off the light and was instantly asleep.

Sergeant Rivers has just gravely informed me that it was Sam who had found Connie Dewar's body this morning.

After making all the right noises, I took myself off to the kettle to make a quick brew. I was not completely shocked, of course; I already knew all the facts about the case that had made into the original police report, but being here in person was a different prospect. I was forcibly reminded that dusty old names on papers in the future are _real_ people in the here and now_._

No-one here yet knew that Connie was pregnant by Frank Gannon, or that Rex was the one who had accidentally pushed her down the stairs while they were arguing. Something about the 'flavour' of the police report made me wonder if there was something else going on with Rex; Foyle had made his report very clipped and factual, almost brusque, and it didn't 'read' the same as his other reports.

The reason I'd wanted a moment alone had been so that I could double check the dates of the Bexhill incident in my mental log of Sam's diary. Unless I was very much mistaken, this afternoon was when Sam got trapped in the depot's main office with a ticking suitcase.

Chris and Milner were gone all morning, interviewing people and visiting the crime scene. I would have loved to have tagged along with them, but I was still trying to keep under everyone's radar.

_Although the majority of the people around here don't yet know about radar._

I confess I'm living on my nerves. I'm jumping like a twit at every loud noise as if the Bexhill bomb is just over the road.

_Supposing one of the Chrisses inadvertently delay Foyle's rescue of Sam? I know she wrote that the 'you-know-what' didn't go off because it wasn't constructed very well, but maybe this time around that isn't the case?_

It's a good job I'm busy trying to type quickly; otherwise I think my nails would be chewed to bits.

I take Chris a cup of tea at three o'clock. As I go through the door to his office I just nudge it enough to make it close slightly so that we aren't too visible to anyone outside the room.

"Tea up, Mr Foyle."

Chris looked up at me and put down his pen.

"Thank you, Miss…er…Davis."

_Ha! He nearly forgot._

"You're welcome."

I placed the tea near his right hand and tried not to look as if I was dawdling. I've seen with my own eyes that he's tough but fair, even with his own staff, so I'm not going to incur his displeasure by actually asking if Sam's back yet.

_Plus, I'm not supposed to know that Sam has been recalled from Bexhill today._

I can't think of anything to say or ask about Sam that won't land me in hot water. I tut under my breath and turn towards the door. Chris' voice halted my departure.

"Um…how are things going with the reports?"

I turn back to look at him. He looks tired and underneath his poker face I can see that he is worried. Somehow, I don't think it's about my typing skills.

"Fine, thanks. Almost up to date, despite the fact that anyone would think you lot are scouring cupboards and drawers for any outstanding typing just to get it done before I have to leave."

I meant it as a light-hearted comment about how much typing there was, but Chris' expression became even more bleak. He was in shirt-sleeves and waistcoat – his jacket rested on his chair – and he looked slightly crumpled. My heart went out to him; I felt all sort of squishy inside, like I wanted to go and hug him and take his pain away.

_Oh, sod the dog, I've got it bad._

Horizontal wrinkles mar his forehead as he enquires.

"You've…um…heard from your family?"

_My family? Oh, yeah, the people who dictate my movements – I nearly forgot._

I shake my head.

"No, not yet."

The wrinkles on Chris' forehead mostly smooth out. Maybe he thinks he has one less thing to fret about.

"Erm, well, just wondered, with the talk of leaving."

I can't think of a single useful thing to say. I know I sound lame.

"Not yet."

_But soon._

I left the office and returned to my typewriter. There was another pile waiting for me to tackle.

I worked away almost without thought. I kept looking at my watch – I'm surprised I didn't get repetitive strain with all the checking.

There was still another half hour to go before Sam's call would come for him when Chris appeared in the doorway of my office. He was carrying his hat and wearing his coat.

"If you have any more reports for me to sign, please just leave them on my desk for the morning, would you? I'm going home on time for once, after the very early start today."

Ever had those nightmares where you're convinced that if you were able to make an intelligible sound, you would save the whole world from destruction?

"_Arerrghm._"

Well, there goes the planet.

Chris turned, already on his way out. Obviously my fluent Martian had been interpreted as 'Sure, off you go then.'

I shot up, bashed both thighs on the underside of my desk and sat back down again. The desk had shifted slightly; I walloped my left knee hard enough to bring tears I tried to hurry after the boss a second time.

"Chr – Mr Foyle!"

_Christ on a bicycle, I nearly called him 'Chris', at work!_

"Sir! Mr Foyle, please wait up a minute!"

This was _it_. This must be the moment of conflux that could alter the past and my present. If Foyle left now, he wouldn't be here for Sam's desperate telephone call. The fact that she didn't die was irrelevant – they both needed to get the adrenaline shot that the incident gave them in order to realise where their true affections lay. Sam needed to realise that Foyle was the first person she thought of in her hour of need, and he needed to realise just how bad he would feel had he lost her.

All this I thought of in an instant. I hurried out into the corridor, limping as I went.

There was no sign of Chris.

I'd failed and my family line would pay the price.

But so would Foyle and Sam.

TBC.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Foyle's War and original characters are a copyright product, borrowed for a short period of time and returned unscathed (mostly) from fanfic land. Some original script has been used without permission, but no infringement is sought or implied, and credit to the scriptwriter where it is due.

Author: hazeleyes57

Rating: A or T

A/N: This is a shorter chapter than usual, and still a WIP.

**What Will Be – part seven**

Just as I was working myself up into a panic attack, Chris appeared, as if by magic, from the office behind the front desk.

He's nimble; I'll give him that.

I could breathe again. I got to the desk just as he was leaving and of course he noticed the limp.

"Are you all right?"

Mindful of the desk sergeant within earshot, I tried to be circumspect. Instead it came out 'cryptic'.

"No. Yes."

One sardonic eyebrow lifted. Jeez, that brow alone should get an Oscar. I redefined my answer.

"_Yes._ I need you -"

"Pardon?"

_How true, but not what I meant to say. Freud, anyone?_

"I need you to look at…at…erm…"

_C'mon then, clothbonce, think of what you want him to look at. _

_Other than me nekkid and waiting, obviously._

_What a time to get brain-freeze._

I looked around us, up and down the corridor, for inspiration. None was forthcoming. I moved away from the desk, hoping that Chris would follow. He did.

"Actually, there isn't anything to look at. The thing is…I need to talk to you. Privately. In your office not in your home type privately. If you have time. _Please_."

He didn't do anything so rude as to sigh heavily, but I'm fairly sure he would have liked to. Instead, he gave a nod, and moved back towards his office. Behind his back I looked at my watch. Twenty five minutes.

_What the frack can I talk about for twenty five minutes?_

Just as we got to the office Sgt Milner turned up. I could have kissed him. He looked at Foyle's coat and hat.

"I'm glad I caught you, Sir. I've just informally interviewed Rex Talbot, if you have a moment?"

Chris turned slowly to face me, his eyebrow doing its thing.

"Erm..?"

It was as good as a whole question; _am I free, Miss Davis?_

Nodding, I backed towards the door. It didn't matter why he was in his office, so long as he stayed in it.

"I'll just get you both some tea, shall I? Won't take a jiffy."

I fled to the relative safety of the staff room, where I discovered that not only does a watched pot actually boil, but that it also boils bloody quickly if you want it to take ages.

I took Chris and Milner their tea, and another cup for me back to my office. All I have to do now is hurry up and wait.

I did have one thing that I ought to get finished before very long. I took out an ink pen, and addressed the clean sheet of paper with care.

'_Dear Zak, Hi guys; you should see your faces…'_

I think I can remember how it goes. I need to get myself back here in the past so that I can get Foyle to wait for his phone call. Obviously the two Chrisses didn't do anything to tamper with the timeline; I haven't seen them since I arrived, so I'm not here to stop them doing anything wrong. That's the trouble with time paradoxes; you can never get your head around them. How was I ever here in the first place? Someone must have saved the Foyle line at some point.

Thinking about it, I wonder if my manager back in the you-know-when knew what was going on. Perhaps he had a visitor from further up the line?

My thoughts were interrupted when the man himself appeared in the doorway. Chris looked weary, as if the weight of the world sat upon his shoulders.

"Lily -" He caught himself. "_Miss Davis_; you wanted a word?"

I nodded and stood up with a little more care than previously.

"In your office?"

It was the closest to exasperated that I had ever seen him. He frowned as he looked around my 'office'.

"Is there anything wrong with here? I'm trying to get out of the building and really not having much luck of it today."

_Could he hear his telephone from here? I'm not so sure._

"Umm, well, we could, but we might be…compromised."

I looked pointedly at the large mirror. Mr Poker face looked surprised for a brief moment. I could see what he was thinking.

_How did she know?_

His tone was resigned.

"Right. My office."

He waited for me to step ahead of him and I walked as slowly as I could without arousing suspicion.

But all too soon we were seated in his office. What could I say to keep him here for a few more minutes?

"Would you like a cup -?"

"No more tea, thank you."

The smooth interruption was polite, but firm.

"Now, what's so important?"

_What indeed?_

"I…um…"

_Nice lucid start._ _Please continue._

I took a breath.

"It's difficult to know where to start."

Chris leaned back in his chair. His voice was dry.

"Try at the beginning."

"The beginning. Yes, that would probably be the best place…"

I sighed.

"…but I can't do that, so I'll have to start somewhere else."

_At almost the end._

"Have you ever found yourself in a situation where you were told to do your job, but that the assigned task was so much more than you thought it would be at the beginning?"

_He had served in the Great War; of course he knew what I meant._

Subtly more alert, Chris leaned forward and nodded slowly.

"I have."

"Did you cope?"

He knew that I was asking if he had still managed to do his job.

"Yes, I did. But it was…difficult."

"Difficult. But had to be done, no matter the cost."

Chris frowned at my words.

"Is there a problem with the work? What have you found to be more than you expected?"

_You. You are so much more than I anticipated. So different from a few small black and white archive pictures. _

My thoughts ran ahead of our conversation and I was not really aware that I wasn't answering his question.

"Sometimes we lose sight of the fact that faded pictures and old names in a dusty book once belonged to real people; living breathing human beings, that played, laughed and…loved. Then it's a shock to realise that one day I'll be a faded photo in an old book and no-one will remember that I was _real._"

The gentleness and sincerity in his response was obvious.

"I'm sure that you won't be forgotten, Lily. You don't just exist; you're vitally a_live_; there's laughter and love for you, I'm sure of it."

I suddenly feel very near to tears.

"Thank you."

I felt weary with the effort of trying to be creative about keeping Chris in his office. I had a desperate urge to tell him everything and throw myself on his mercy. Unfortunately, this would probably lead immediately to my incarceration for insanity and that would bugger my chances of getting back home, not to mention what it would do to the timeline.

Chris, bless him, was now looking mildly confused.

"But I'm still not sure what you need me for, Lily. How can I help you?"

I looked down at my lap and surreptitiously checked my watch.

Any minute now.

I look up at him; my smile probably looks a little rueful.

"Never mind, boss, don't worry about it. It'll sort itself out. I'm sorry to have delayed you going home."

I stood quickly, anxious to be out of the room before the phone rang. Chris now looked baffled by the speedy turn of events, but he regrouped quickly.

"Erm, tonight, I was wondering…if you're free…?"

I shook my head and spoke without engaging my brain, which was busily tied up with wishing that I could spend more time with him.

Time, ha, that's a laugh.

"You'll be busy."

Blast; now Chris looked startled.

"Pardon?"

I tried for a misunderstood expression.

"I'm sorry; I meant unfortunately_ I'm_ busy later."

Chris was already half-nodding; as if his brain was saying 'hang on, something's wrong here' but the rest of him was trying to be adult about the perceived rejection.

_Oh, now I feel terrible. Wait, no, I have an idea._

"But I can put that off, if you don't mind eating a little later than usual…? If I wasn't being presumptuous about tonight…?"

_This way, he will have to cancel our plans, but he won't feel rejected. Ace!_

"Not at all. Would eight thirty suit you?"

I started edging towards the door; this was cutting it too fine.

"Yes, that'll be fine. See you later!"

As I walked as quickly as was decorously possible along the corridor, I could imagine the scene in Chris' – sorry, _Foyle's_ – office; He would be at the door, coat and hat at the ready, the telephone would ring and he would look peeved at least. Possibly a hesitation at the door while he considered whether or not to answer it…

He'll go to the desk and drop his hat before he picks up the telephone receiver.

"_Yes?"_

"_Sir! It's Sam!"_

"_Sam, what is it?"_

"_I'm at the depot, in the Bennett's office."_

"_What are you doing there?"_

"_It's a long story. The point is there's a bomb."_

"_There's a what?"_

"_It's in a suitcase. Someone left it in here. I couldn't see who it was, I'm afraid, but I've sort of got stuck in this office."_

Foyle will probably stand up, all agitated, at this point.

"_What do you mean you got stuck in the office?"_

"_I'm locked in and it looks as if it's going to go off pretty soon."_

"_Soon? How soon?"_

"_Ten minutes I'd say, sir."_

At this juncture I imagine he'll be beside himself with anxiety.

"_Well get out of the window – break a window!"_

"_I'll try."_

"_And if you can't do that, you get behind something solid. Lie flat behind a desk or a table or something? On my way!"_

Then he'll hang up the 'phone and rush to the rescue. Yup, I reckon that any second now he'll come out of his office and bark out his commands.

Foyle's office door banged back on its hinges right on cue.

"Sergeant! Assign someone to get hold of the bomb disposal people; send them to Bexhill Fuel Depot immediately, tell them there's a bomb in the office, and then _you_ get the car out, we're going…"

From where I was hiding, the sound of Foyle's voice faded as he hurried away. I looked at my watch again. I smiled. Sam was right on time and history was back on track.

Foyle would rescue his driver and future wife. And they will live happily ever after. Eventually.

I guess tonight's dinner is a bust.

I couldn't be more pleased.

These are happy tears.

Honest.

TEASER FOR CHAPTER EIGHT:

Sam turned back towards me and I could see she was girding herself up for a difficult task. I wondered what it was.

"I need to ask you something quite important, Lily."

"Go ahead, fire away."

"What are your intentions towards Mr Foyle?"

_Wow. I guess I should have been expecting that… _


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: Foyle's War is a copyright product of A Horowitz. Fan fic is for entertainment only, no infringement intended.

Author: hazeleyes57

Rating: T or 12A

**What Will Be – part 8 **

After all the excitement of Sam's rescue I returned to my little house. I feel a great sense of anticlimax now that it's all over. I won't get to finish the HG Wells I'm reading, but I'll re-read my own copy back in my warm flat. Time to say goodbye; everything is back on track.

Yet somehow I still feel…unfinished.

I know it's partly because I want to say goodbye to everyone at the station; to say good luck to Sam and Foyle, and to wish Chris well.

This is dangerous thinking. I'm too close to these people; they have become real to me and I've realised far too late that I have become attached to them.

Definitely time to go.

I've never been particularly tactile, but now I wander around the house, touching things; the kitchen table worn smooth with years of use, the wooden draining board, pale with repeated washing, the antique-by-my-time cooker and oven looking shiny and almost new, the books along the shelf, prematurely yellowing at the edges – probably from cigarette smoke -, the beautifully polished wooden clock ticking softly to itself, the much-rubbed balustrade a shade paler than the dark barley twist banisters of the stairs and up those same stairs, the squeaky bed and its cool crisp sheets.

In all too short a time this house had become quite dear to me; a living museum to be sure, but a home too.

I still feel restless. My wandering becomes prowling.

My eyes come to rest on my suitcase.

I have a sudden thought.

It's _wicked._

"I owe you an apology."

I looked up from my typewriter to see Chris – Foyle – standing in the doorway. He came into the room and stood in front of my desk.

_Yes, I know, I should be gone by now, but I wanted one last day. _

"An apology?"

"Mmm, for standing you up last night. Carlo said that you looked very sad, seated all by yourself."

My gentle laugh was a work of art.

"Don't be daft; rescuing Sam and getting the poor young woman sorted out was far more important than a meal out. I'm just really thankful that she's okay – that you're both all right."

"You're being very gracious."

I waved it away.

"You know Carlo; he thinks my heart is broken and sees what he expects to see. I assumed – correctly, as it turns out - that you had pressing police business to attend to and so was not at all put out. Any less than happy expression he caught was simply due to the fact that I have been recalled to the family business and will have to leave shortly."

For once, Chris' famous poker face let him down. He looked as disappointed as I felt.

"I…see…"

I carried on typing, which was stupid, because it was all nonsense, but I didn't want him to see how much I was bothered. I'd start again after he left the room. I made my voice sound quite chirpy and upbeat.

"How is Sam?"

The pause was long enough to be not only pregnant, but to have delivered twins.

"Erm…fine, she's fine. Told her to take the day off. Not going to, of course."

"But typical Sam, though."

I glanced up at Chris, but saw only Foyle. I typed more drivel.

"You should take her out to lunch; food always distracts her."

That got a glimmer of a smile out of him. Another pause. Without seeming to move, he rocked on his feet.

"So, my apology is accepted?"

"Of course. Don't give it another thought."

Foyle nodded once; just a small dip of the head, before turning to leave. I pretended not to notice him glance back at me.

As soon as he left the room several letters of the typewriter got caught up and jammed.

I swore a bit under my breath as I freed the stalks. I snatched the report out of the typewriter and tore it to shreds, dumping a fair bit of my angry misery into the effort. I chucked the bits in the bin and then put my hands to my face, hoping, I suppose, to hold my emotions in.

I was on the verge of a big 'waa!' when I heard a noise from the room the other side of the mirror. It was as good as a bucket of cold water over my head. It could only be Chris next door; I hadn't heard anyone else arrive in the corridor, and I'd been too busy shredding to hear if he had left completely.

_Don't care – I'm fine – don't care – I'm fine – don't care…_

The litany wasn't true, but it calmed me down. I know he _cares_ enough to check up on me, but that's not the same as love. I can't afford to let him think that I care too much.

Even if I do.

I finished fixing the fresh report sheet into the typewriter and took myself off to the Ladies. The door to the room next to mine was closed. When I came back ten minutes later, it was slightly open. Whoever had been in there was gone.

I'd only just started typing again when I felt a tingling in the inside of my left forearm, about three inches from my wrist. It only lasted for ten seconds and then stopped. I rubbed the spot and sighed. I looked at my watch and noted the time.

I'd almost forgotten about the TPS. A small locator gizmo that had been injected subcutaneously before I left my own time, the Temporal Positioning System is similar in principle to the old global positioning system that used to track vehicles and stuff before the advent of the neural net. The TPS enables each team to keep track of their agents, wherever they are in time and space.

Very handy. Also useful is the early warning tingle that advises the agent that retrieval is thirty-eight hours away. It'll give another warning in twenty-four hours, then after another twelve, and the last one half an hour before. Each warning will get slightly more insistent. I've told this to agents over the years and not thought much of it, but if the next three reminders ramp up the wattage, it could get quite painful. The TPS is powered by my own electrolytes, like a battery. If you think that it wouldn't provide enough 'oomph', you've obviously never had a static shock off someone. Because it's powered by me, it also can tell if I'm dead, in which case an emergency retrieval is activated. It won't do me any good (Hello? Dead here?), but it will prevent anyone else finding inappropriate technology about my personage.

But enough of the fun stuff. I now know that retrieval is slightly less than thirty-eight hours away. I did a quick calculation. Absolutely sodding great - that means I'll have to be at the rendezvous point at midnight in a town that has an eleven pm curfew. My boss has obviously established that I have corrected the timeline and it's safe to bring me back, but I wished he'd thought it through a bit better.

Time to say goodbye.

I'm ashamed to say that I was significantly slower typing up the reports during the morning. Only Sam's bouncy presence cheered me up at lunchtime, when she stuck her head around the door and grinned.

"Come on slowcoach; doesn't do to keep Mr Foyle waiting."

I looked up and there she was; spick, span, and, yes, tickety-boo.

I couldn't help grinning. She didn't look like a great-times-eight grandmother.

"Waiting?"

She nodded, her grin widening.

"Rather! We're going to the Royal Victoria; it's a treat because I didn't get blown up. Come on; spit spot or he'll go without us!"

"How can he do that? You're his driver."

While we were bantering, I quickly checked Sam's diary in my memory. Had she mentioned that she and Foyle had gone out for a meal together after the Bexhill incident?

Yes, she had.

_Dear Mr F took me to the RV for lunch! A celebration for not ending up in bits. It was lovely, just the two of us; almost romantic, but I shouldn't say that. Despite the beastly war the food was quite good. We had…_

Sam went on to list the modest meal in detail. It actually made me feel peckish.

"Well, the Royal Victoria. Sounds rather splendid, I think I'd like to see what it's like there…"

I still had Sam's diary in the forefront of my mind and to my surprised dismay I saw the words written there melt and flow, changing into new sentences.

_Went to the RV to celebrate not ending up in bits yesterday. It was quite fun, Lily can be very amusing, if a little odd, but much as I enjoyed her company, I almost think that I would have preferred it if it was just dear Mr F and me. I feel quite mean to even think it, but I do think that he likes her rather too much._

My gaze flew to Sam's face. She was still politely waiting for me to finish my sentence, but armed with my inside information, I could see the conflict in her eyes.

I sighed with real regret.

"…but I'm afraid it will have to wait until later. I have several reports to finish before lunch. Have a drink for me; a toast to your longevity!"

Sam had the grace to look convincingly crestfallen.

"Oh, must you work? Please can't you come with us?"

I shook my head and watched the words in my mind flow back into their previous form – thank goodness!

"I'd love to, Sam, really I would, but this needs to be done today."

Still she hesitated, but she was clearly weakening.

I waved towards the door.

"Scoot! The boss is waiting, you said so yourself."

With a last cheery 'Bye then", Sam left for her lunch date.

Cripes, even now things were still in a dangerous state of flux. I didn't realise that I could still mess things up. In many respects it would probably be better if I could be retrieved now. I can't remember the last time that I felt this conflicted.

I finished up the last couple of reports, took them to Foyle's office and left them on his desk.

I took a long look around, committing everything to memory. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, taking in the combined aroma of old paper, polished wood, leather and ink; the 'office' smell that didn't completely overwhelm the subtle whiff of Chris' soap or cologne, whatever it was that permeated his hankies and made my knees feel weak.

_Goodbye, my dear Christopher._

I opened my eyes, gave one final look, and left the room.

I collected my coat, saying a casual ''bye' to the Desk Sergeant on duty. I should imagine he'll assume that I'm off to a late lunch.

I walked in to Hastings proper and found a bank that I knew still existed in my time. I opened a savings account – still very easy in 1940 – and deposited nearly all the money that I had brought with me under my real name, I just kept sufficient back for an emergency. I was assured that my investment would prosper and grow, despite the war.

My next stop was with a reputable looking solicitors firm. An hour or so later I walked back to my place, taking the longer walk via the seafront, past the silent guns and their guards, then finally up the hill. It was sunny, warm and pleasantly quiet.

I felt almost peaceful.

That is, until I got within sight of my front door and saw that Chris was waiting there. I couldn't even veer off and pretend that I hadn't noticed him - he had already seen me.

I concentrated on finding the key in my bag rather than look at him watching me.

I was far too aware of twitching curtains nearby to keep us both standing on the doorstep, so as soon as I'd got the door open I invited him in.

Chris removed his hat as he entered the front room, but didn't make any move to sit down. I wasn't certain if this was manners or reluctance, but then, I didn't know why he was here yet.

"Please, have a seat."

He remained standing.

"Aren't you going to ask me why I'm here?"

I felt my hopes rise and a grin trying to sneak out. I squashed them both.

"Well, I was trying to find a tactful way of asking if I'd made a typing mistake, but couldn't come up with a way that didn't sound like I was -"

"Why didn't you come with us to the Royal Victoria? I know Sam asked you, just as I know that you didn't have that much more work to finish."

I bet I looked as surprised as I felt. It was unusual for Chris to cut in; he was unfailingly polite, especially to women.

"If you must know, I thought it would be better if just the two of you went."

"Why?"

I avoided his eyes.

"Well, it wasn't anything to do with me, really. Sam called you, you rescued her."

"Nonsense. I didn't specify that you had to be involved to accompany us. It occurs to me that if you hadn't detained me, I wouldn't have been in my office to get Sam's call, so you _were_ involved."

_That's what you get for fancying a detective. Too smart for his own good._

I could hardly mention that I felt as if I'd be playing gooseberry between the two of them. It's far too early for Chris – Foyle – to admit his feelings for Sam, and she definitely won't want the cat out of the bag yet.

I need thinking time and space. Ironic, really.

I made myself look at Chris.

"Would you like a cup of tea? I was just going to make one for myself."

He actually looked like he'd bitten off an epithet. He shook his head.

"No, no tea, thank you. Just some answers."

"Well, I'm having tea. Come through to the kitchen if you wish, or have a seat."

I turned without waiting for an answer and went into the kitchen. I took the kettle off the stove and shoved it under the cold tap. I was so busy _thinking_ that the kettle overfilled and I had to tip some out. I hadn't heard Chris follow me and assumed that he had taken a seat in the other room, so when I turned away from the sink I wasn't expecting him to be standing behind me, and smacked him right in the chest with the wet kettle. Water slopped everywhere, but mostly over his jacket, tie, waistcoat and the front of me.

I was horrified. And soaked.

"_Ohmigod,_ I'm so sorry! I didn't hear you follow me."

Chris brushed ineffectually at his chest in an effort to stop the water soaking in.

"Quite all right. My fault."

I quickly dumped the kettle on the stove, grabbed a tea towel and dabbed at Chris' clothes.

"No, no, it's my fault, I was miles away, I'm so sorry. God, you're _soaking._"

Our hands collided as we got in each other's way, until Chris grabbed my hand and held it still.

We looked at each other in one of those endless moments so beloved by romantic fiction. Beloved, I guess, because it _does_ actually happen just like that.

I wanted to weep.

But instead I tried to be practical and act as if nothing _magical_ had happened.

"You can't go home like this. Take the wet things off and I'll dry them in -"

_No handy household drier in 1940. Sonic or even tumble. Bugger._

"…in front of the fire. Yes, I'll get them fire going, while you get off – them off, your things. Off. Yes. Fire. Going now."

I'm all too aware that I'm babbling.

Chris, damn him, is amused.

I flee.

I quickly get the fire going, but it will be a few minutes before it's warm enough to dry anything. Chris, ever practical, brings the clothes-horse from the scullery to put in front of the fire.

He looks quite different in shirtsleeves. More relaxed and approachable.

Though not as approachable as he did in pyjamas.

_Note to Self; Stop thinking about Chris out of his clothes._

I'm uncomfortably aware that my wet blouse is not only cold, but probably see-through.

I point over my shoulder in the direction of the stairs.

"I'll, um, just get out of, that is, I'll get another towel. Back in a moment."

I run away. Again.

Upstairs I realise that I don't have another blouse fit to wear. I grab my dressing gown instead, and rummaged for a couple of towels in the linen cupboard, before trotting back downstairs.

"Sorry, Chris, I couldn't find a spare -"

I stumbled to a halt.

The front door was open – obviously I hadn't heard the knocker while my head had been in the linen cupboard – and Sam stood on the step, her face white with shock.

In all honesty, I could see how it looked to her.

Chris had answered the door and was _sans _jacket, waistcoat and tie, and I, to all intents and purposes, appeared to be _dishabille_. With the towels in my hands, Sam wouldn't see that I was still half-dressed underneath my dressing gown.

And I'd just called him _Chris._

Sam didn't say a word. She just turned and walked away. Quickly.

"Sam, wait!"

I went to go after her, but Chris stopped me. He quietly closed the front door.

"What are you doing? I have to explain!"

Chris shook his head.

"You would do no good to run after her. Let her go for now."

"But you don't understand! She mustn't think that anything is going on between us!"

Hardly were the words out of my mouth before I realised what I'd said.

Ohshit_ohshit_ohshit!

Chris' searching gaze was very _Foyle_.

"Setting aside for the moment the fact that even _I_ am not sure what is happening between us, what has it got to do with Sam?"

_Everything!_

"I can't explain. _Please _go after her. Tell her whatever you need to; hell, the truth would do; I got us both soaked and you were drying off."

Chris indicated his clothes.

"I'm afraid that I am just as poorly placed to go after her as you are."

He was right, of course. The neighbours, again.

"Okay. You stay here and dry off, I'll find Sam."

I didn't give him chance to reply.

I ran back upstairs, dumped my gown, shouldered my way into the creased spare blouse and put my cardigan on. It would have to do.

Using a spot of 'unseemly haste' I galloped back downstairs.

Chris looked a little bemused at my quick reappearance, but nodded once when I gave him my key and asked him to sort the fire and lock up if I wasn't back before he needed to leave. I opened the front door.

"Lily."

I looked back. His expression conveyed more than his words.

"I still have questions."

_So do I._

"I know."

I left before I changed my mind and stayed.

A few minutes later I turned onto the road leading to the beach.

Fortunately Sam had chosen to walk along the seafront; although she was a good way ahead of me, I could still see her. I started a modest jog, the only thing I could manage in my shoes.

I slowed to a walk before she would hear my heels tapping. Sam's sturdy brogues would put quite a distance between us if she chose to run.

"Sam! _Sam!_ Wait up!"

She turned, looked at me, and much to my surprise, stopped and waited for me to catch up.

She was still pale, but at least she wasn't in floods of tears. I tried a small smile.

"Thanks for stopping."

She ignored the smile.

"May I ask what you want?"

I nodded, still catching my breath.

"Sam, it wasn't what you think; let me explain -"

Her expression was haughty perfection. I wish I could do that.

"You have no idea what I think, and I do not want to hear your explanation, thank you."

_Ouch_.

Despite my admiration of Sam's _hauteur_, a bout of sarkiness stirred within me.

"So, you don't want to hear that I accidentally soaked Mr Foyle with water from an overfull kettle and then offered to dry his clothes for him?"

Sam folded her arms.

"No."

"Why? You'd rather hear that we spent the afternoon testing the springs on the bed and the sound-proofing of the windows?

Sam was shocked out of her icy composure.

"_Lily!"_

"All this debauchery despite the fact that he'd only been at the house ten minutes, tops, before you turned up?"

"Whatever _Mr Foyle_ was doing is none of my business."

I sighed.

"Sam. If it was really none of your business, you wouldn't be so cross. Look, nothing was going on. I know I called him 'Chris', but we shared a table at a crowded Carlo's my first night here and I couldn't keep calling him 'Mr Foyle', it was too stuffy. Think about it – he was with _you_ for your lunch celebration; I've spent my afternoon in town; ask the neighbours if you wish; their curtains must be a twitch with all my visitors today."

_Okay, I bent the truth a little, but it was for a good cause._

Sam's stance softened a little, but she hadn't been won over by any means.

Time for a change of subject.

"What was it that you wanted me for, anyway?"

There was a long moment where I didn't think that she would answer me.

"It doesn't matter now."

"Yes, it does. Please tell me."

"Rather ironically, I felt guilty for not pressing you harder to join us for lunch at the Royal. I came to ask if you'd like to come out for a drink tonight."

"Oh."

Sam's frostiness had barely dipped.

"But it's quite all right. I should have realised that you were previously engaged."

"I – what? What do you mean?"

Sam looked uncomfortable but determined.

"I heard you and…and Mr Foyle, earlier today. I was coming to see you when I heard his voice from your office, apologising about standing you up last night. I wondered what was going on, but someone was coming and I didn't want to appear to be eavesdropping, so I ducked into the room next to yours…"

_So it wasn't Chris I'd heard._

"Where you discovered that you could see into the next room through the two-way mirror."

Sam nodded, her cheeks pink.

"Oh, Sam. You could have just asked me."

She gave me a look that was easily interpreted.

"Forgive me for saying so, but you are a bit of an odd fish, Lily. You seem to live by quite a different set of rules to the rest of us…I couldn't possibly ask; it's absolutely none of my business."

_But so dear to your heart, hmm?_

I suddenly felt very weary. I turned and looked out to sea. The water appeared quiet and still. No-one could see the raging currents beneath.

I could relate.

I didn't turn back to face Sam. I felt guilty enough.

"Well, perhaps you should make it your business."

She didn't, of course. I walked back to my place; I have no idea where Sam went.

I half expected Chris to have left, but when I tried the front door it opened to reveal him sitting in the armchair, reading my book. He looked up at me, then carefully laid the book down, the piece of paper I was using as a marker neatly in place.

He stood, polite as always.

"Did you find her?"

I nodded.

"Didn't help though. You were right, I should have let her cool off for a while."

The concern on his face made me feel warm and fuzzy and guilty.

"Are you all right?"

_Just peachy._

Mr Mind Reader crossed the room in three paces and stood in front of me.

I was looking at the floor, so the first thing I saw was his shoes.

"Lily. Please look at me...I think that the time has come for us to talk."

I looked up from his black shoes and their smart shine, to his blue eyes.

"Okay, but I can't promise that I have any answers for you."

"Mmm, perhaps. Perhaps not. We'll see."

Quite without thought I moved a little closer to him and rested a hand on his shirtfront. I could feel the warmth of his body through the material. Without my permission my heart skipped and fluttered excitedly. I searched his face for a clue to what he was thinking.

"Just to make it clear; I have officially resigned, I no longer work for you. I have to leave soon. Very soon."

I like to think that some of the light died from his eyes at my bald statement; that he might at least miss me a little when I'm gone.

"I understand."

"Do you? Do you really?"

How could he, when I didn't understand it myself?

He lifted his right hand and moved back the hair that was resting against my left temple and cheek. It took a lot of willpower to stop myself from tilting my head to his hand. He'd barely touched me and yet my knees were wobbly. I really didn't want to 'talk' right now. What I wanted was to shove my dear Christopher back onto the small sofa, climb on to his lap; my knees either side of his hips, and exchange some serious kisses.

And that was just for starters.

Chris' voice was quiet.

"You are an enigma, Lily. A puzzle. I like answers to puzzles. It's partly why I do what I do."

He scanned my features closely.

"But there is also something else going on here."

_I think I'm in trouble._

"Oh, don't worry, I'm quite certain that you are not working for 'the enemy', but you _are_ working for someone. And although whatever it is that you are doing is important, it leaves you conflicted."

I hope my expression wasn't as panicked as I felt.

"Chris -"

His hand moved from my hair to my shoulder; his touch was light and I could have been free in an instant. When he realised that I was not going to pull away, the hand turned and cupped the back of my neck. My eyes fluttered closed. Goosebumps prickled across my shoulders and down my arms – it was like electricity feathering over my skin.

I think I might have moaned.

I forced my eyes open and discovered that Chris was regarding me in a way that had my insides quivering.

_Holy mackerel. _

The buzzing in my ears faded when I realised that his lips were moving.

"…so I find myself thinking 'Persuade her to stay'…"

I started to shake my head, but his hand still held me.

He half-frowned, closing his eyes briefly, as if in pain.

"…but you won't stay, will you, Lily? No matter what I say?"

"I _can't_!"

His response is too quick – too hopeful.

"But you would? If you could?"

_Shake your head girl! Tell him 'no' and mean it._

My traitorous head gave a single nod and I heard him sigh.

"Then that will have to be enough."

I wasn't aware of taking the last step that narrowed the distance between us, but I felt his other arm slide across my back and gather me closer still.

I'd like to say that his kiss didn't move me at all and that he apologised before he left.

I say I'd _like_ to say that, but then I'd be lying.

The following day was bright and sunny; almost too picture perfect for there to be a war on. I tried to sleep in, knowing that I wouldn't be going back to the station again before I left, but it was impossible. I made a pot of tea and took a mug of the sweetened brew with me out into the back garden.

It was all very Zen.

Modern life – that is, my life, is fast. Everything is coming at you all the time; imagine a cross between...oh, I dunno, one of the really old flicks like Bladerunner, or that other one with the short guy my mum hated...I forget his name now, but it doesn't matter, it was the film with the retinal scan advertising I was thinking about. Everything greets you by name; even your lift talks to you, as if you're incapable of watching the numbers.

It's something I don't miss, all that immediacy. Despite the war, it's peaceful here. The quiet is seductive.

And the last thing I need is to be seduced.

But if there is one thing that I have learnt from my being here, it is that it's a waste of precious time waiting for the perfect moment to start following my dream. There will never be the right time to do it. I have to _make _time; seize it by the scruff of the neck and not let go until I'm where I want to be.

My newly determined inner coach was distracted by a barely heard knock at the front door. I was tempted to leave it unanswered, but it could only be one of two people, neither of whom I wanted to ignore.

I was pleased to see that it was Sam standing on the doorstep. She looked a little taken aback at the fact that I was not properly dressed yet; but I invited her in and offered her some tea. She accepted, probably out of habit; one never passed up a brew.

Although she wasn't her usual chatty self, she didn't appear to be holding a grudge about yesterday's events. While I poured her tea she talked about the weather and the shocking price that some shopkeepers were charging for non-ration items. I began to relax, relieved that Sam was still speaking to me. I invited her to sit with me at the table in the kitchen and she accepted.

After ten or fifteen minutes I was no closer to finding out why Sam had come to see me. She was in uniform, so was still on duty, but even so...

Just as I was about to ask, she abruptly stood up.

"Well, I must be off, duty calls and all that."

I stood up too. I didn't know what to say to ease the residual awkwardness that lingered.

"Of course. It was nice to see you. Thank you for dropping by."

I didn't want to leave things like this; I'd probably never see her again after today. I had to put a hand up to my lips to physically prevent the words from leaving my mouth.

She got as far as the door to the front room before she stopped.

Sam turned back towards me and I could see she was girding herself up for a difficult task. I wondered what it was.

"I need to ask you something quite important, Lily".

"Go ahead, fire away."

"What are your intentions towards Mr Foyle?"

_Wow. I guess I should have been expecting that..._

"My...intentions..?"

Sam nodded, her action brisk.

"Yes. You see, I have decided that you were correct yesterday when you suggested that I should make it my business. He is my boss and I respect him immensely. I wouldn't like to see him hurt in any way."

I managed a smile, although I think it would be classed as tremulous.

"I can assure you that we are in agreement there."

Sam nodded once, but seemed to be having some sort of internal debate.

"Please don't upset yourself Sam; I wouldn't dream of hurting him. You have both come to mean a great deal to me in such a short space of time. I can hardly understand it myself, but it's the truth."

She looked at me for a few seconds. Her expression gave me the impression that she was assessing the truth of my words.

"It's the War, you know. It does that."

"Yes, I suppose it did. Does."

I hoped she didn't notice my small slip. I hurried on, just in case.

"Anyway, despite what you thought was happening yesterday, I would still like to consider us friends. It would mean a lot to me."

Sam still hesitated. I wondered if I was adding more moments to her eventual realisation that she must love Foyle in order to feel this put out about someone else finding him interesting.

"You haven't answered my question."

"Sorry?"

Sam was a picture of patience.

"Your intentions. Towards Mr Foyle."

I don't think that I have ever felt this conflicted in my whole life. On one hand there was my life until now; exciting in some respects, terrifying in others – certainly my responsibilities in the Timeline were occasionally hairy, even if it didn't risk my life and limb. Well, until this little adventure, at least. But other parts of my life I know realised were stunningly boring and, I can admit at last, rather lonely. Here in the past I had found friends that I would like to have kept in my life. Friendship and...love.

Just as I opened my mouth to reply, I was zapped in my arm by the second of the TPS warnings.

"Yeowch!"

I slapped my arm without thought, trying to rub the pain away. Sam's reserve dropped away as her concern surfaced. The pain was worth it just for that.

"What is the matter? Have you been stung?"

I continued to rub my arm, but I didn't pull up my sleeve.

"Possibly, but it's gone now, nothing to worry about. I'll be okay in a minute."

Sam didn't look convinced, but I changed the subject.

"I don't have all the answers for you Sam, but what I can tell you is that any attention that I paid to Mr Foyle was entirely honourable and without prejudice. I think he's a lovely man, and any woman that snaps him up will be a very lucky person. However, that lucky woman is not me."

Sam's relief was almost comical.

"Oh."

I followed Sam to my front door, opened it, and stood to one side so that she could leave without the whole street viewing me in PJ's.

"Yes, 'Oh' just about covers it. Your Mr F is safe and sound from me..."

Sam turned quickly in the doorway, looking a little shocked.

"He's not _my_ Mr Foyle."

I contrived to look overly innocent.

"No? Oh, okay then. My mistake. Sorry."

I looked at Sam for the last time and tried to memorize her features. I wish I'd got a camera.

I grinned to let her know that I was supposedly joking. Her smile was uncertain.

"Bye, Lily."

"Goodbye, Sam. You take care."

She gave me a funny look, which I couldn't interpret, but her farewell was jolly.

"Always!"

I waited a moment before closing the door, but didn't leave it long enough to see if she looked back. I went back upstairs and packed my things together. I brought the case back downstairs and left it by the armchair. I got washed and dressed and tidied the house, leaving it as I'd found it.

Driven by an impulse I didn't understand, I went back into the town and wandered up the high street, turning left into Robertson Street and browsed at the limited things available in the shop windows. I had no idea what I was looking for, but I felt I'd know what it was when I saw it.

Twenty minutes later I stopped outside the pawnbrokers on the corner. It was the only shop with a plentiful display in the window. I looked at the things and my gaze was immediately drawn to a little pale blue box. It looked familiar, which was absurd, but I just couldn't take my eyes off it. The delicate trinket box rested on a silver filigree frame with tiny ball feet, and there was a tiny clasp that held the lid closed. The lid was painted with exquisite roses and the whole thing just captivated me. I knew that I had to get it.

There was no price on the item, so I feigned nonchalance as I went in the shop and looked at other stuff for a few minutes. Eventually I gave in and enquired about the box in the window. The guy behind the counter was courteous enough, but became a lot more receptive when he realised that I might be in the shop to buy instead of sell.

We haggled a little over the price – it was quite expensive, even if it was old, but I won out in the end, though it took all my 'emergency' money. The box was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Such extravagance in wartime!

I put the little package in my handbag and walked down to the seafront, avoiding the guarded area where the guns were sited. I looked at the sea for a long time and wondered about life, love and complications.

Eventually I walked back up towards St Helen's Road. None of the roads were named, but I'd begun to get my bearings around Hastings, and knew that this was the road that Sam had picked me up from when I arrived here. The large area of greenery that was off limits was a park; I didn't know its name now, but it became Alexandra Park later on. I'd heard from reading as I was typing 'Police Reports' that there was thought to be 'something' in the park that was kept quiet. All I knew was that I had to be in that park at midnight tonight.

When I had learned all that I could about access to the park from the road I walked back to my digs. I confess that I did wish that Chris would be there waiting for me – preferably without a warrant for my arrest – but no such luck.

I made myself a cup of tea with the last of the milk and settled down to wait. It seemed endless – the wait, not the tea. Ten pm rolled around, along with my TPS warning, that made me hop up and down and grit my teeth. I will never be so casual about briefing agents in future. The bloody TPS hurt!

Shortly after I'd calmed down, I turned off all the lights in the house and checked the blackout was secure before I opened the front door and picked up my suitcase. I was wearing dark colours, trousers with flat shoes, and trying to look like I belonged outside an hour from the curfew. I walked with purpose but not in a way designed to attract attention. The night was dark with some cloud and there wasn't much moonlight. Some of the Gods were on my side.

Twice I passed a couple of men, soldiers I think, standing in the doorway of a shop, having a sneaky smoke. I saw no light, but fortunately the smell of cigarettes carries and I was able to get around them without being seen.

I finally made it to the road at the edge of the park and knew it to be before eleven-thirty, because I hadn't had the warning go off yet. I hoped to whoever the patron saint of time travellers was that they would look kindly on my journey and not make me leap around like a looney when my arm buzzed. I planned to have several words with the boss when I get home about the TPS. Some of the words could possibly be deemed offensive.

I just hope I get to use them.

After a careful look around me, I looked for a gap in the hedge to get into the field. After a minute or two I was starting to get concerned. Defeated at the last minute by a thorn hedge. Bloody typical.

Just as I was about to panic I found a hole where part of the hedge had died back at the bottom. I shoved my case through first and wriggled through after it. I got scratched to Hell and back, but not enough to stop me getting through.

I rested on the damp grass for a moment and looked up at the stars. I was too old for this malarkey. Give me my nice safe desk.

"_But I haven't had this much fun in ages."_

My voice was the barest of whispers, but I shouldn't have spoken aloud.

"_Fun? This is your idea of fun?"_

I jumped out of my skin and only just managed not to scream. Some part of me realised that it was Christopher Foyle's voice whispering. I looked around me and watched in dismay as a dark blob detached itself from the hedge that I'd just breached and moved towards me.

Given that he too was whispering, I wondered just how 'busted' I actually was. My heart climbed down out of my throat, but it was still hammering.

"_What are you doing here?"_

"_I could ask you the same thing."_

"_I'm going home, like I told you."_

"_Via a restricted area after curfew?"_

His whisper sounded sceptical.

"_Not my choice. Are you going to turn me in?"_

There was no answer. Even with my dark adjusted eyes I couldn't see exactly where he was.

"_Hello?"_

I looked around me and sat up.

"_Hel-ooff!"_

I was flat on my back again, with a hand over my mouth and a body lying over me. I did what I should have done a moment earlier and shut up.

It was while I was taking inappropriate pleasure in the hand over my mouth and the body pressing me into the grass that I heard what I should have heard before.

Footsteps.

They came closer and closer and I held my breath when the boots scraped to a halt on the road not more then two yards away from me. If they looked over the hedge they would probably see us.

"You hear something?"

"Nah, you're hearing things. C'mon, let's go. Fred and Charlie'll be here at midnight; we can have a fag and get a brew on."

"You and your tea. You'll cop it one of these days."

I heard a laugh.

"Yeah, well, we've all got to go sometime, but I'll have my tea first."

The sound of boots faded as the two guards moved away, and I could breathe again.

"_Why?"_

"_Told you; going home."_

"_Where is home?"_

"_Does it matter? It's not Germany."_

"_That much I'm reasonably sure of, or neither of us would be here."_

I had wondered. Chris must trust me a little.

"_How?"_

He understood.

"_Sam told me you'd said goodbye. She said it sounded like goodbye forever."_

Ah, that expression I couldn't read.

"_So you had to stop me?"_

"_Are you stopped?"_

Well, actually, no, I was not. We crouched as we made our slow way across the open grass before the park proper.

"_Then why?"_

"_Thought you'd do something stupid; I was right."_

"_Gee, thanks."_

There was a long pause. I could almost hear him thinking.

"_You're not local. I...needed to be sure that you got home."_

Gawd, he was a marvel, a unique man and I was getting him into so much _shite. _

"_It's okay. I'll be home soon enough. Please go before anyone sees you, please!"_

"_I can't -"_

Before he could utter another word I squawked aloud – I couldn't help myself. The unexpectedness of the TPS reminder and its severity exceeded my tolerances. I managed to keep to my feet as I grabbed my arm and tried to keep my mouth shut, but it was too late.

'_What the hell was that?"_

A sentiment no doubt expressed by two guards not that far away. I could hear the scrabble of boot-clad feet running back towards us.

I wanted to run but there was no cover near us. Chris pushed me towards the park.

"Go! Run; I'll distract them."

I was frantic with worry, but not for me.

"But you'll be caught!"

"Doesn't matter; I'll be all right. Run! Do as you're told for once!"

So I did. And I did what every dumb bird has done in every thriller since they were invented.

I looked back.

And fell arse over tit.

I was so mad and so scared. I could hear shouting behind me.

_Why does anyone think shouting the word 'stop!' will make people stop? _

I scrabbled to my feet and retrieved my case. From the corner of my eye I could see Chris making for the north side as the guards came from the south. Although they had yet to get through the hedge, it was extremely unlikely that I would evade capture for another thirty minutes.

The first shot was fired seconds later and I jumped out of my skin. It sounded so loud and so close! I couldn't help turning back to see what was happening.

Chris hadn't stopped moving. But one of the guards had. He was standing still and raising his rifle to his shoulder again. I could see the barrel of the weapon move in Chris' direction.

I was moving before I knew it and screaming 'no, no!' at the guard. In a heroic (or stupid) moment, I figured that I was expendable, but he most certainly wasn't. He had two more children to have, for a start.

I dropped my case and ran like the devil was after me. I went across diagonally and tried to stay in the guard's line of fire. Two more shots rang out, and I heard them zing into the trees even over my laboured breathing.

Everything I could see was slowing down, like I was running in molasses.

I couldn't make myself run any faster. I think it was the most terrified I've ever been.

A moment later something punched me in the back; it was so hard that it knocked me off my feet.

As I fell I could see Chris stop and turn back to look at me.

I felt quite odd. I frowned at Chris.

_Don't stop – you should keep running._

I felt really winded. I'm so out of condition.

The shooting had stopped and all I could hear was someone breathing heavily.

Chris dropped to his knees beside me.

_You'll get grass stains...they'll never come out._

"Lily? Can you hear me? Lily?"

'_Course I can silly, no need to shout..._

I really wish that whoever was gurgling so horribly would pack it in; it sounded revolting.

I heard the guards challenge Chris and he really savaged them, telling them 'for God's sake man, she's not going anywhere' and something about calling for an ambulance.

Someone turned me over and I really _really_ wished that they hadn't. That punch was really beginning to hurt. I was probably going to have a massive bruise when I got home.

I suddenly thought of the trinket box. I needed my bag.

I moved my arm - which for some unaccountable reason was very heavy – and pulled the package out.

'Gift for you..."

I felt the weight of it leave my hand.

"Lily, we can talk later; never mind it now."

"No, now...promise me! Keep...keep it in the family...promise!"

"Very well, I promise. Hush now, my dear one. Save your strength."

_My dear one..._

His lovely, crumpled, anxious face looked at me while he held my hand. I smiled up at him. Thank goodness he wouldn't be alone.

"Sam...she can't...breathe without you, Chris...look after her..."

"Lily! Hold on, help is coming."

Was that choked voice really his?

_I'm so tired and so cold._

"I...think I'd like to..."

_Rest._

TBC.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Not owned by me (except Lily!), no infringement of a copyright product is intended.

Author: hazeleyes57

Title: What Will Be – Part nine

Rating: A, 14, or T – some sexual references, but nothing unseemly :-)

A/N: As per request, a split chapter of the progress so far. WIP.

**What Will Be – Part Nine **

I died.

Okay, the smarter reader will have figured out that for themselves, and I'm sure that you'll also have one of those moments that my English teacher so loved to point out; you know, the 'oh you couldn't possibly know what Lily was thinking at the time because she died and didn't tell us' - the criticism always spoiled my creative efforts at school. Obviously, as I am telling you the tale in the first person, my death wasn't quite the whole story.

For the sake of descriptive completeness, I have included here observations from other points of view that I did not know at the time (what with being dead and all), but were told to me later to fill in my gaps. I owe considerable thanks to the diaries of a certain flame-haired ancestress, who was able to fill in the back story in a way that will become clear later.

Here goes.

I was tired, cold and suffering from hypoxia. I knew that I had fulfilled my part of the mission; Chris would survive to have his second family, one child of which would be my ancestor, so I wasn't dying a failure, unless you count the bit about dying. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, just Chris' face fading away. A numbness spread through me until I couldn't feel my arms or legs or Chris' hand in my own. I regretted that the most, and squeezed as hard as I could, but the message didn't get to my hand. Light and sound retreated and the last thing I heard was Chris telling me to hold on.

I died.

The resultant loss caused my TPS to activate the emergency retrieval, and I shall be forever grateful that I was unaware of the agony of that little trip. The punch that had knocked me off my feet had been a bullet, as I'm sure you had figured out, even if I had not. With no hint of remorse, the projectile had torn through my left lung, carried away the best part of one lobe and smashed a few ribs. One piece of rib punctured one of the ventricles in my heart, creating a haemopericardium. Yeah, I know, I had to look it up too. Blood leaked out of my heart, but couldn't escape the membrane around it and the pressure stopped my heart from beating. Although the initial wound had filled what remained of my lung with blood (remember the gurgling?), having a heart that had stopped pumping what little blood I had left out of the hole actually gave my brain slightly more time.

The emergency retrieval took a few precious seconds to calculate my location; not as complex at the ones that would have brought me back at the correct time and alive, but good enough not to hasten my 'real' death; that is, one that I couldn't be recovered from.

In those few seconds, a crash team arrived pronto, and was ready and waiting for me when I was unceremoniously dumped on the floor of the transport chamber. Boy, did I make a mess.

My team were there too, waiting in the wings, present as they would have been for my routine return. As my engineer, Mike was the one who was most closely involved with the mechanics of retrieval, and I didn't find out until later that he had already started calculations for an early recall. This too contributed to my survival.

It also made for quite a crowd outside the chamber. In the split second of shocked incomprehension after my return, it was Mike that made it to my body first, closely followed by the medical team. I was hooked up to God knows what and re-started. I have a very vague and hazy memory of seeing Chris' face looking down at me with that same anxious expression that I remembered from the park where I had been shot, but I realised later that it must have been Mike's face instead.

The pain was excruciating and I promptly passed out. Go me. I was stabilised and transported to the in-house medical department, where I was taken straight to theatres. Medical advances have come a long way since the 1940's, but the human body still reacts badly to hot, fast bits of metal entering it.

I didn't realise at first that I had been dead. My first moment of awareness involved a tetchy whinge about the noise keeping me awake. The 'noise' was actually voices, speaking softly, not far from my location. Nothing of what they said made sense.

_'...may be complications...we'll have to wait and see...(mumbling)'._

A different voice joined in, female, no-nonsense.

_'...sure? I'll get them to check...(more mumbling)'._

Behind it all was a rapid but solidly regular thudding that was in danger of driving me nuts. I wanted it to stop until I realised that it was my own heartbeat. I asked nicely if people wouldn't mind toning down the noise just a smidgen.

"_Shurrrup."_

Well, close enough.

I faded away again for a while.

When I surfaced again my ribs hurt. I ached all over. But I thought there was a possibility that I might live.

The thudding of my heart has dulled considerably, and I can't hear any voices, but I am not alone when I finally really wake up. My hand is being held, and there is a weight on the side of my bed. I try to lift my head and regret it immediately.

My battered and bruised body lets me know that it is not happy.

I attempt to enquire about my condition.

"_Gruurrgh?"_

Lucid it is not, but I have conveyed sufficient.

The head resting beside my knees moves, but the hand does not.

"Lily! Thank God!"

The expression on his face is best described as uncertain joy.

It is my engineer, Mike. At first I'm puzzled as to why he is here, then it all filters back to me. My face crumples, and Mike looks plain uncertain now.

"You're crying. Are you in pain? Shall I call the doctors?"

"_No..."_

They came anyway; all my electronic surveillance had already given the game away.

They fussed and congratulated me as if I was a gifted four year old, but I was more interested in what I could find out from Mike. I couldn't wait to be alone to question him.

Eventually, and not a moment too soon, my medical entourage departed; I was exhausted.

1940 – Aftermath.

With a tremendous clap of sound and pressure, DCI Foyle was catapulted backwards both literally and metaphorically. He landed flat on his back; for the longest moment he thought he was back in the trenches during the Great War again, with the stinging buzz of a near miss rattling his ears. Dazed and winded, he tried to make sense of what had just happened.

Although he had no concept of what had occurred, he had been caught in the nimbus of Lily's retrieval. The bubble of displaced time that surrounded the traveller had 'nudged' Foyle out of the way. Safeguards in place meant that no-one came in contact with the actual displacement (they would be vaporised), but its shield still packed a wallop. Usually anyone within five hundred yards of a delivery or a retrieval simply 'forgot' that they had seen or heard any such thing, but Foyle's close proximity would grant him a different view.

He would remember.

When the world righted itself, Foyle got to his feet, albeit unsteadily.

"Lily?"

His own voice made his head hurt and he hoped the high pitched whistle in his ears was temporary.

A large circle of scorched and gouged earth had removed any trace of blood on the ground where Lily had fallen.

Foyle remembered a bright light the instant before he had been knocked aside.

_Was it a mine?_

His mind instantly dismissed that option for two reasons; because he didn't want to believe that it was true and because he was still breathing.

He looked around and spotted the two guards, both on the ground, and he hoped, merely unconscious. He moved towards the nearest one and checked that he was alive. Satisfied in this, he moved to check the other one. Relieved, he headed for the gate as quickly as he could and made his unsteady but cautious way home to Steep Lane.

Foyle saw no reason to alert anyone to the strange goings on. He was not certain that he could explain anything in a way that didn't make him sound insane. Unconscious guards and vanishing women.

_Lily!_

If it hadn't been for the blood on his hands and clothing, Foyle would almost have thought that he _was_ mad and that he had imagined the whole evening.

But his overriding emotion was that of fear. Fear of what had happened to Lily. He knew only too well what a bullet could do. No-one could have lost that much blood and survived.

As he washed the blood out of his clothing with cold water, he prayed that he was wrong.

Much later than was usual for him, Foyle readied for bed. After finishing in the bathroom he returned to his bedroom. He paused in the doorway and recalled Lily lying in his bed; close by but untouched. He remembered her smile, her wit and her oddness. The not-quite-fit-ness that marked her as unusual.

He frowned with distraction as he remembered how right she had felt in his arms; how wonderful it had been to kiss her.

He knew with certainty that he would never see her again.

Out of habit, he walked across the room to check that the blackout was still secure before he returned to the bed. Something in the room registered as off-kilter in the back of his mind; it was not 'off' enough to do more than niggle at him, but he was too weary to sift through to find out what it was. He would do better to remember in the morning, after a good sleep.

It didn't occur to him that he was suffering from shock. Post traumatic stress had yet to be invented.

XXXXXXXXXX

The Present.

Despite my exhaustion, I needed answers. Mike had been summarily shoved to the back of the queue around my bed when the med bods had invaded, but he had remained in the corner of the room even after they had left. When our eyes met as I sought him out, he stepped forward. He didn't take my hand this time and I found it disquieting that I noticed and minded. Odd.

"What happened?"

"You got shot."

I pulled a face but it hurt, so I stopped.

"That much I know now. I meant to the Timeline."

Mike's expression twitched with amusement.

"Typical Lily, all business. There's more to life than that, y'know."

I closed my eyes and remembered another life.

"Yes, I know. But humour me. Pretend for a moment that it's just another day of return."

Mike looked at me, seeing more than I had intended. If only he didn't look so much like _him._

"Okay. You sorted whatever the glitch was. As far as we can tell, nothing we did before you went back caused the problem. The Chief has confirmed your opinion that it was a paradox."

"I said that?"

"Yes; in your letter to Zak the day before yesterday. Remember? The letter you sent to him that got you sent back?"

"That was only two days ago? Christ, that seems like weeks ago."

_I promise to give returning agents more sympathy in future. No wonder they always seemed a bit out of it when they get back. For those who had been gone for weeks or months, it must be really disorientating to come back to within twenty four hours of leaving._

"With a few minor differences – well within tolerances – your line is back on track. Foyle married Samantha Stewart after the war ended. She had left the MTC and his employ by then. Had a couple of kids, one of whom was an eight-G of yours. So, here you are, safe and sound."

Instead of faded pictures and dusty pages, my mind's eye could see Sam and Chris in all their colourful glory. I began to smile, but that hurt too. Then I felt a little guilty.

"Um...minor differences?"

"Yes. One or two little shifts in stock purchases that meant they had a comfortable retirement instead of an adequate one. Nothing massive that would change things, but enough to see that they ended their lives without debt or discomfort."

I looked down at my bed covers to avoid eye contact.

"That's all right then. I'm glad that things worked out for them."

There were several seconds of silence and I could feel Mike's contemplation. I had the disquieting feeling that I knew him better now than before I left, but when he did speak he didn't say what I expected.

"Do you know why you failed the assessment to become a Field Agent?"

I'm sure I looked as surprised as I felt. How had he found out? Some people go straight into this job; it's not a foregone conclusion that we all try to be TA's.

"Yes. I couldn't kill to restore the order."

"That was part of it, yes, but that wasn't all of it. Despite the image you project to the world, you are a very emotional individual."

I scoffed.

"I most certainly am not. They call me The Ice Queen behind my back."

Mike half grinned in an achingly familiar way. My stomach twisted.

"Okay; spot test. Answer without thinking. The people you met yesterday, are they dead? Or alive in the past?"

_Alive in the past._

"That's an old trick for newbies. They're dead, of course. What's your point?"

Mike raised both eyebrows sceptically, and looked amused.

"One day you will realise that you are very in-touch emotionally, but because you worry that people will think that you're a softie, you have to present this tough exterior. The Powers That Be knew that you would be too emotionally involved when you went back. You'd see them as real people. You also have a very high score for justice; fairness, if you will. You want things put right, which is what you currently do in your work, _remotely. _TPTB were worried that you would put things _right,_ rather than _correct_ for the Timeline. All these factors worked against you for the job of TA, but that doesn't make you wrong, or a bad person, it just makes you wrong for that particular task."

I think this is probably the longest conversation that I have ever had with Mike.

But his words touched a raw spot deep inside me, and for no real reason I could verbalize, I felt very...naked.

"Why are you telling me all this? And how do you know about my scores? Isn't that all supposed to be confidential?"

Mike nodded.

"Yes, it is, and it still is. I was only told on a need to know basis, to help you with your recovery."

This was a day for surprises.

"My recovery? I thought I'm as patched as I can be."

Mike's expression moved to genuine sympathy, but I flashed on a micro-expression of pain underneath it.

"Your emotional recovery."

"What rot! My emotions are just fine."

The fact that I had carried that expression back to the present spoke against me. I guess I deserved the skeptical raised eyebrow again.

"Lily, I've worked with you for a long time."

"That much is true. But that doesn't mean that you _know_ me."

"Then tell me you're not in love with Foyle."

X X X X X X

1940

Foyle surfaced from sleep in a succession of layers.

Consciousness...he knew he was waking.

Reluctance...he didn't want to wake up yet.

Awareness...he knew what day it was.

Relief...he still had a roof over his head.

Anticipation...he was looking forward to seeing...

Realisation...

_Bloody hell...it wasn't a dream._

Foyle lay awake for several minutes, going over the past week in his mind, wondering what to make of everything. The facts just didn't add up. He had no idea how to explain what had happened last night.

His forehead creased in thought, Foyle gave up the idea of staying in bed. He threw back the covers and reached for his dressing gown. Without bothering to tie it, he padded barefoot to the shuttered windows. As he reached for the curtains to pull them back over the wooden shutters, he remembered the odd feeling he had experienced last night; the idea that something was 'off' in the room.

He folded back the shutters and looked – _properly_ looked – around the room.

Nothing seemed out of place, nothing was missing.

Foyle sighed.

At least the ringing in his ears had dulled a little.

Across town, in a somewhat miserable establishment, Sam Stewart was trying not to grimace as she attempted to eat her fried pilchards on fried bread. Mrs O'Neill, her landlady, had left them a trifle long in the pan; the pilchards were black and hard, the fried bread so crisp that each time Sam stuck her fork into it, a piece would shoot off the plate. She had lost two such bits to the dog already. Just as she was debating whether or not this could be classed as animal cruelty, Mrs O'Neill returned from the kitchen. She was holding an envelope in her hand in such a way that Sam was half convinced that her landlady didn't want to part with it before she knew what it contained.

"i forgot. This came for you yesterday, found it on the mat. Feels heavy. Something in it, like as not."

Sam laid down her knife and fork with reluctance. Her breakfast may have been unpalatable, but it was slightly better than nothing at all.

"Thank you."

She took the envelope but didn't make any effort to open the letter.

Arms folded, Mrs O'Neill sniffed.

"Aren't you going to open it? It might be important."

_So why didn't you hand it over last night, hmm? You went to bed before I did._

Sam gave a cheery false smile.

"Oh, it's probably nothing. I'll open it later, when I get to work." She looked at her watch. "Speaking of which, I need to get going."

Grateful as always to get out of the house these days, Sam hurried on her way, having paused only briefly to collect her gas mask box and her regulation sized handbag. Her pace was brisk, mainly due to the downhill momentum, but she was young, fit and not in the least short of breath. As she walked she tore open her letter, taking care not to damage the envelope so that it could be re-used. Pulling out the folded notepaper, Sam's eyes flew to the name at the bottom, confirming her suspicion as to the writer.

Lily.

_Dear Sam,_

_By the time you get this, I'll be well on my way home. I'm really sorry that we didn't get to say goodbye, but _

_it had to happen this way – I'm not good with long goodbyes anyway._

_The enclosed is the front door key to my place. I have transferred the rental agreement into your name _

_and paid up to the end of the year. Pity I won't see old misery O'Neill's face when you tell her you're leaving! _

_Take good care of yourself Sam, and look after the Boss. I'm so glad that we met._

_With deepest affection,_

_Lily._

Sam checked the back of the letter, but there was nothing else, then she tipped the key into her palm. The letter was unsatisfactory; it posed more questions than it explained. Why had Lily got to go? Why couldn't she tell her goodbye to her face? Why was there no forwarding address or any way of contacting her again? Did she dislike her so much that she had just cleared off?

_No, that was silly._

Sam admonished herself. Lily had cared enough to send her a letter.

_And freedom._

Sam looked at the key in her palm and felt a smile pull at her lips. It was one of the few days in her life since meeting Mr F that she hoped that there were no unfortunate happenings that would prevent her from going home early.

By the time she picked up the car to go and collect Foyle, she was still humming a little tune under her breath.

Foyle had expected Sam to be more upset about Lily leaving and was surprised by her cheerful greeting on the doorstep of his house. As he wasn't quite ready, Sam came inside to wait as was usual. Foyle finished doing his tie and buttoned his waistcoat. He glanced at his appearance in the mirror just for form's sake and noted in the reflection that Sam was looking at something in her hand and smiling. His curiosity was peaked.

He moved into the hall and picked up his hat and coat.

"Sam?"

She startled and turned towards him.

"Sorry, Sir. I just can't get over Lily's generosity."

Foyle's eyebrow went up.

"Hmm?"

Sam showed him the key.

"Lily has passed her lodging on to me. Paid up until Christmas. It's rather splendid of her."

Foyle experienced mixed feelings when Lily's name was mentioned. Somewhere in the complex mix of strong emotion there was a hint of jealousy that Sam had heard from her, but that he had not.

"Yes, it it."

He contrived to appear innocently interested as they left the house and got in the Wolseley.

"Heard from her, have you?"

Sam shook her head as she started the engine.

"Not really; I mean not by post or anything. She dropped a note in at my digs last night, though I only got it this morning."

Foyle was disappointed, but tried not to show it.

"Mmm."

Sam seemed to take that as permission to natter on, but most of it washed over Foyle while his mind was somewhere else.

It was a long day.

Sam wasn't _so_ happy over the next week that she didn't notice that Foyle was not himself. In her opinion, he had been very subdued since Lily left. On the one occasion she had wondered aloud about how Lily was getting on, Foyle had replied that he was sure she was fine, wherever she was.

But to Sam's finely tuned ear, he had not sounded as convinced as he might. Sam confided only in her diary, and then only in a circumspect manner. Just in case.

Sam settled into her new lodgings with a happy heart. Within a short space of time she had got a vegetable patch on the go, and life started to settle back into its usual pattern.

Ten days after Sam moved into Lily's house, Foyle came home after a long and wearisome day of catching up on paperwork, to a house that seemed too quiet. He realised with a start that he had finally stopped hearing the ringing in his ears that had plagued him since the night of Lily's disappearance.

_I must stop calling it her 'disappearance'. She went home._

_But she did disappear. Vanished into thin air._

Foyle wished that he had a drink in the house. He didn't fancy making the effort to go out to the pub or a restaurant and he didn't feel all that sociable.

In the end he made himself some supper, then settled down to read the paper and listen to the radio.

Eventually it was time for bed, and Foyle went through his usual routine, finally ending up at the bedroom window to check the blackout was secure. Once again he got to the window and experienced the vague feeling of disquiet that assailed him each time he crossed the room.

As Foyle lay in bed, more awake than he would like, he finally gave some thought to what it was that was bothering him. Looking around the room for inspiration, he found that his eyes were constantly drawn back to the small bookcase that housed some of his reading material for the nights he couldn't sleep. He noticed that there was one book slightly protruding from the ordered ranks of fiction.

Unable to leave it be, Foyle got out of bed, padded across the room and pushed the book back in place with its companions. The title caught his eye.

_The Hound of the Baskervilles._

Foyle returned to bed and settled down. As he put out the light he thought about the book; something was prodding his memory again.

He was just drifting off into sleep when the central conceit of the story popped into his mind.

_There had been no sound from the hound._

_No sound._

Foyle was wide awake again. He reached for the light and got out of bed. He walked, barefoot, around the end of the bed. He walked back.

_No sound._

For no reason he would yet admit to himself, Foyle began to get excited.

_There was no sound!_

The floorboard that had creaked every time that he had walked over it for more years than he cared to mention, no longer made any sound at all.

_That _was what had been unsettling him every night. The sound was so familiar that he barely even noticed it anymore, but his brain had registered its absence. With care, Foyle knelt down on the floor and examined the floorboards within his reach. Within moments he spied the shiny new screw in the place of its predecessor nail. He got to his feet and hurried downstairs to the cupboard in the scullery that contained his toolbox. A brief rummage found his screwdriver and a putty knife. The latter would do for lifting the floorboard after he had removed the screw.

Making haste, Foyle practically ran up the stairs to his bedroom.

All the while his hands were working to undo the screw his brain raced on ahead, wondering what it was that he expected to find. He knew that it must be Lily that had done this. She was the only person that had been in his house and more specifically, this room, recently.

Finally, his efforts were rewarded and he had the screw removed, and the floor board up.

Inside he found...nothing.

Foyle couldn't believe how disappointed he felt. He slumped back on his feet as he regarded the small rectangular hole in the floor. It was the space between the ceiling below and the floor here, and it was about six inches deep. It was also surprisingly clean. The next section along to the right was quite dusty by comparison.

Feeling the anticipation build again, he noticed that the next section to the left was also clean.

_Cleaned so you wouldn't notice drag marks in the dust. Drag marks from something like..._

Foyle smiled as he leaned down and reached into the next section to the left.

"A small metal box."

It was locked, but turning it over he found the key taped to the bottom. He quickly opened the box and found inside a letter addressed to himself.

It was the work of a moment to have the envelope open and the letter inside in his hands. He looked at the last page.

_Lily._

The letter was dated just before her disappearance.

_My dearest Chris,_

_If you are reading this, I'm not surprised! You are a great detective and I would have been disappointed if you hadn't found it. I pulled the book out of the tidy ranks, knowing that it would eventually get noticed and make you think._

_I don't know how much time has passed since I (reluctantly) left Hastings, but I know that I will never see you again, and could never explain why. Please don't worry about me, I know that I'll be okay where I'm going. _

_I've written down a few pieces of information that I want you to take note of; nothing bad, just a few hints about sensible choices for your future. PLEASE keep these to yourself, don't even tell Sam. _

_Sam. Darling girl, I do so like her. I expect by now you know that I gave her my rented accommodation up until the end of 1940 -_

At this point Foyle frowned. 'Up until the end of 1940' jarred with him; it seemed an odd thing to say.

_- she had a frightful dragon for a landlady. But I digress. I never could write a decent letter; kept ambling off sideways, but I always did like that form of communication._

Did. Past tense. Was that relevant?

_Anyway, back to the point. I want to thank you for the most wonderful time in my life – so far. To be able to add those last two words means more to me than you will ever know. You have given me something that I had no idea I had lost. A sense of hope for the future, a willingness to chance my heart in someone else's care. It will take a while for me to get over loving you,_

Foyle's heart skipped over the plainly written words. '_Loving you_'. She _had_ felt something for him too. He wiped his nose before reading on.

_- but that's my own fault. I knew going in that I would not be able to stay with you, but I couldn't help myself. In one glorious afternoon, I realised that you have to live for the moment, because you never know when you are going to see someone for the last time. You made me see that my life wasn't over, that I'm not lost to at least the possibility of a different future. By that admission, I want **you **to see the same thing for yourself. Don't close out the possibility of marrying again; Rosalind wouldn't want you to grieve for the rest of your life. How would you feel if you realised that you had let your soulmate escape because you had been looking at the ground instead of the road ahead? You will have to be patient for a few more years, but keep your courage close and your hope high. _

_Okay, lecture over. On the other page, I've written some stuff for you in order that you have a comfortable retirement. Do not spend more than I have suggested; I don't want you drawing attention to yourselves._

_I've just re-read this letter and it probably makes no sense, and it's a terrible love letter. Bottom line; I love you. There, I said it at least once to your face. I wish that I could see you again, just...God, I'm breaking so many rules here. You will always have a place in my heart, no matter what the future brings for either of us. _

_Give my love to Sam too, she will have to carry the torch for all of us._

Foyle found himself frowning again.

'Carry the torch for all of us'? What the dickens does she mean?

_By the way, the reason I wanted to call you 'Chris' is because no-one else is likely to; you are 'Christopher' to your friends, and always will be. That is the one thing I allowed myself to bring back with me, the knowledge that your soulmate will call you Christopher, and you will not think of me. Be happy, you deserve it,_

_Fondest regards, Lily._

'Fondest regards' had been neatly crossed out.

_Love always, Lily._

Foyle remained seated on the floor for some time, re-reading the letter again and again. Eventually he realised that he was cold and beginning to cramp. He climbed stiffly to his feet, leaving the floorboard open for the moment. He got back into bed and read the letter one more time before putting it to one side. He switched off the light to settle down, but it was a long while before he managed to get any sleep.

_Where are you, Lily?_

TBC.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: Foyle's War is acknowledged as someone else's copyright product. Used only for fan fiction purposes, no infringement intended.

Author: hazeleyes57

Title: What Will Be – Part ten

Rating: A, 14 or T

A/N: Thank you to everyone who left comments about the previous chapter, as always they were much appreciated.

This one starts after Mike asked Lily to tell him that she is not in love with Foyle.

**What Will Be – Part Ten **

The present.

The silence that echoed around my hospital room was oppressive. Mike's request hung suspended between us like a patch of fog on an otherwise sunny day.

I closed my eyes.

"I don't love Foyle."

Mike's breath exhaled noisily.

"That's not the most convincing statement I've ever heard. You'll have to do better than that at your post trip review."

I didn't trust myself to speak. My control was poor; I blamed my pain meds.

I felt Mike take my hand again; his palm rested over its back, his fingers tucked under and touching my palm. I didn't take hold, but I didn't pull away.

"Get some rest, Lily. Things won't seem so bad when you're in better physical shape. If you need anything, call me. Even if it's just to vent. You'll be okay, trust me."

I nodded, knowing I wouldn't call.

I could feel him looking at me, even with my eyes closed. But eventually his hand slid from mine and I heard him leave. I was alone again.

Like a kaleidoscope of colour flashing past my eyes, I kept seeing scenes from my visit to 1940. Little snippets of conversation, little peeks into a life that was never mine. I know my mission was successful; I'm still here, but I feel now as though something is missing. I kept my eyes shut to keep out the reality of my hospital room. I allowed myself to daydream until I fell asleep, and dreamed again of _him._

When I surfaced again I could tell it was late. The medical staff were less busy, and my window was a square of black. I wondered what the time was, but wasn't sufficiently bothered enough to ask anyone.

"It's three in the morning."

I jumped in surprise and my back protested. The chair in the corner of the room was in shadow and occupied. Although I was groggy, the shape was familiar, as was the voice. My heart sang.

"Chris?"

'Chris' got to his feet and came to my bedside.

It was Mike. I hope he didn't see my disappointment.

"How did you know I wanted to know the time?"

Mike shrugged.

"It's the first thing I'd want to know. How are you feeling? Better, apart from being bummed that I wasn't 'Chris'?"

He air quoted the name and I scowled. He grinned and I could imagine how Chris would have looked aged thirty five.

"Why are you here?"

One eyebrow went up.

"Can't I just visit with a colleague? We've worked together for a long time; _I_ consider us to be friends."

_But you're a friend who has feelings for me, and I'm afraid that I might end up using you._

"_Colleagues_ don't visit at three in the morning, and even _friends_ aren't let in then. How come you're allowed here?"

Mike nodded at the female staff at the desk.

"Unlike you, they're not immune to a pretty face."

I looked around.

"Did you bring one with you?"

"Oh, har-de-har-har."

I found myself smiling, which surprised me. I did feel a little better than before, but everything ached like the devil.

"That's better."

"Huh?"

Mike nodded towards me.

"Good to see you smile again. You should do it more often."

"Nah, spoils the rarity value."

I answered straight off the cuff as usual; have I always tried to keep everyone from getting close to me? Or had it just been Mike?

He rolled his eyes.

"Very funny."

"I try. Ask anyone; I'm really trying."

"That much I know."

"Gee, thanks."

The effort to banter had wiped me out. I sighed shallowly against painful ribs. I was exhausted, but not so much that I didn't realise that my trip to 1940 had changed me at a fundamental level. I've no idea how it happened, but...I'm not the same person that went back.

_Chris; he did this to me...or...maybe..._

I can't believe I didn't think of it before. Neither of my agents (Chris and Christine, remember?) had done anything wrong. I _had_ to meet Chris of 1940 in order to kick start in him the idea that he could feel something for another woman; to give him that push on his journey that would eventually get him to propose to Sam. What I don't understand is why it had to be _me._

"Lily? Are you still with me?"

I looked at Mike as if he were a stranger, which in some ways, he was.

"Sorry?"

"You went away; for a while there you looked very pensive. What's wrong? Do you want me to call a medic?"

I felt my face try to form a frown. It still hurt.

_Maybe my heart was broken in more ways than one._

"No...no, I'm okay."

_At least, I hope I will be._

Mike was still there, holding my hand, when I fell back to sleep.

When I woke later, it was daylight and Mike had gone.

I told myself that the sharp feeling of disappointment was just down to me pining after a familiar face. Just which familiar face I was pining after was not something I wanted to think about yet.

X X X X X X

1940

The first thing Foyle saw when he switched on the bedside light was the letter from Lily. It was propped against the trinket box, right where he had left it. He closed his eyes briefly, considerably relieved that the whole incident had not been a dream.

He didn't bother re-reading the letter. He had it memorised last night by about the fifth or sixth read.

He had woken up early despite not getting to sleep very quickly, so he didn't have to get up just yet. Making himself comfortable, he mulled over the whole 'Lily' episode, from the moment of their precipitous meeting to her untimely disappearance.

Sam had seen her first. It was the sudden deceleration of the vehicle that brought his attention to the figure in front of the Wolseley. It was odd now, looking back over the scene from his recollection. He remembered it in much better clarity than he should, as if his brain was filling in the pictures after the event. Had her eyes really looked that open and been such a luminous green-brown?

Foyle remembered the expression on Lily's face when Sam told her that she was 'quite safe' with DCI Foyle. Looking back now, had it been surprise or shock? When Lily had got in the back of the car she had been so pale she could have been suffering from shock, he supposed. Her hands had been badly scraped, but she hadn't complained; she had even gone so far as to decline his offer of a handkerchief, saying that she would get it dirty.

Lily's long-limbed gracelessness had been endearing. He suspected that she didn't wear skirts that often back 'home', wherever that was. Possibly somewhere cold? Further north, perhaps? Foyle smiled when he recalled taking a moment to admire the slim ankles, decorously crossed. He hoped she hadn't noticed.

Lily hadn't leaped at the chance of working at the station when he mentioned the lack of staff. He had thought that she would. Did that make her the innocent party? Or a gifted spy?

He didn't know if he would ever have an answer to his question, but it wouldn't stop him thinking about it for a long while to come.

Had she done any harm?

No. There was no evidence that she had spied on anyone; none of the work he had given her had been 'sensitive' material; he was not that naive. The only thing that she had done that he specifically knew of was to take the last available billet in Hastings, which had caused some distress to Mrs Milner – a somewhat cold and unsympathetic woman by all accounts – and resulted in Sam staying at his house for a few days. That hadn't been a bad thing from his point of view.

His review took a brief detour when his mind stubbornly pictured Lily lying in his bed. He frowned at his brain's fickle behaviour. One woman was a challenge to think about, but two was courting disaster.

Frowning again, another thought followed on from an earlier one. If Lily hadn't kept him in his office, he might have missed Sam's call from the Bexhill depot. It was unlikely that Sam would have died, as the bomb had been badly assembled, thank heavens, but he wouldn't have had the fright that the incident had given him that made him appreciate Sam's presence all the more.

His mind drifted from one moment to the next, highlighting different little moments of happiness, curiosity, surprise, contentment, pleasure, guilt, sadness and, he could admit to himself now, joy. The meals, the interesting conversations, the simple pleasure in each others company. His irrational displeasure when Lily had failed to join him and Sam for lunch that made him go around to her house to see her.

_Hmm, and just look where that got me._

Lily's insistence that Sam should not think that there was anything 'going on' between himself and Lily. Despite their mutual attraction and...what had she called it? Sparkage, yes, that was it. Even in the face of 'sparkage' Lily had denied herself almost to the end.

Foyle's mind shied away from the image that the words 'the end' engendered. He couldn't think about that yet. Think about something else.

The kiss under the stairs that had started so well and ended in an entirely unexpected manner.

J_ust who was 'Mike'?_

When he had delicately moved his fingers through Lily's hair to find her bump and check that it wasn't bleeding, he realised that she wasn't a natural brunette. Although her hair had been a very convincing shade of darkest brown, he had seen the tell tale glint of a different colour in the roots close to Lily's scalp.

Her teasing comment about his 'distraction' being in fine working order was also unexpected. Was it the 'live for today' effect of the War making her so bold compared to the young women of his courting days? Or was it something else? She certainly hadn't been shocked at his lack of control over his aroused body; in fact she appeared to delight in it. He wondered – not for the first time – just how far Lily would have gone if he had not called a halt to proceedings on that occasion.

Lily was such an odd set of contradictions. She was feminine in a boyish way. She was capable and practical about jobs and didn't seem to see the divide between tasks that were for men or for women. She freely admitted that she preferred not to cook. And she didn't eat meat. What had she asked for at Carlo's? Vegetable pasta? No...no, it was _vegetarian _pasta. It wasn't something he'd come across before.

Foyle reached over into his bedside table drawer and pulled out a small notebook and pencil. He started to make notes of all the things that seemed out of place.

The more he thought about it, the more pieces of the puzzle that was Lily came together.

For example, the way she spoke; the way she used language.

At first he put her oddly nuanced speech down to the fact that she was possibly a spy, making English her second language. But her accent was almost local, a well-spoken – or well educated; recalling the seating arrangement joke Lily had made – London English. It was her _use_ of the language that had the odd cadence. She used turns of phrases that were unusual. She used expressions that he had only heard used by the American soldiers, but their presence in Britain was still relatively rare and their version of English had not yet made a firm mark.

For no reason he could rationalise, a thought popped into his head and he couldn't shake it. How would Shakespeare or Chaucer sound to him if they visited Hastings today?

Or putting it another way, how would he sound if _he_ visited them?

Foyle made another notation before glancing at the clock. It was time to get up. With a lighter heart than he had had in a while, he got out of bed and went to the hole in the floor. He hid the metal box back under the floorboards and replaced the screws. The letter from Lily he put in his bedside drawer along with the notebook. After a moment's consideration he turned the little key in the lock and removed it. No point making things too easy for a thief.

Very promptly, as was her habit, Sam turned up to collect Foyle at eight o'clock. When they returned to the car, Sam had to move some books from the front seat.

"Sorry, sir. Went to the library yesterday to get some more books. I'm afraid the ones at the house were mostly about rockets and improbable space things. Not really my cup of tea."

Foyle could guess what was her cup of tea, but he asked anyway.

"What sort of book do you like to read?"

"Oh, you know. Usual things, murder, mystery and mayhem. I rather like Agatha Christie's 'Murder on the Orient Express' because it makes one look at the facts from a different angle. It wasn't _one_ person twelve times, it was _twelve_ people once each. Brilliant."

Foyle hid a smile. She was entirely too imaginative.

"Bit of a busman's holiday, don't you think?"

"I can't help it if I find this sort of thing interesting."

He paraphrased her comment from the day they met.

" ' A nice grisly murder.'"

Sam glanced at him and smiled cheekily.

'Caught me out, Sir."

As the Wolseley bumped along the road, Sam made a note to herself that Mr F seemed to be back on form and she was very glad; she had missed him more than she realised.

X X X X X X X

The Present.

Time was passing far too slowly for my liking. I wanted to be out of the medical unit and back at my apartment. Actually, I wanted to be back at work. I needed to see for myself that Sam and Chris..._Foyle _were okay. I know Mike said that they were, but I just needed to make sure for myself.

Mike visited me every day, sometimes more than once; mornings, evenings, lunch breaks, even the middle of the night. He even brought me English grapes; now that the planet was a little warmer all over, we were able to make passable wine in this country, too. He brought me other treats, too, some of them my favourites (Turkish delight, yum!), I should have guessed he'd know my preferences. It feels a very odd situation for me. I know he likes me a lot, but what worries me is that I can't see Mike as separate from Chris yet. The trouble is that they are so alike, and not just physically. Sometimes when it's late and dark in my room, it's almost like talking to Chris and I keep wanting to talk about something that we said or something that happened in 1940, and I have to shut myself up. Was he the same old Mike? I don't know. The old Mike – pre my trip Mike – seemed older, sadder and an object of pity, but the Mike since my return is different.

Or is it me that has changed?

I watched him today while he was talking about something funny at work. I can't remember what it actually was, but he was animated, expressive with his hands and his smile was wide and genuine. Against my pathetic will, I'm beginning to like him, and I find myself looking forward to his visits.

Then I feel disloyal to Chris.

The Medics looking after me tell me that depression is a common side-effect of trauma and the kind of surgery I've endured. Depression makes you tired and sleepy too, I've discovered. I can nod off in the middle of a sentence, and I don't really care that I have either. Although I feel as though Chris is alive in the past (I was only talking to him a week ago), I also know that he is dead,and so is Sam, and Milner, and all the others I came to know and care about. And that makes me feel upset, but I can't tell anyone, because I'm not supposed to feel like this.

I dream of Chris during the day and at night. I still want him with a passion that makes me wake up, yearning, on the precipice before orgasm. That's when I want to weep with frustration as well as sorrow. Gawd knows what my medical monitors are telling the medics. I don't care about that either.

I breathe deep and it doesn't hurt any more. I let the breath out slowly and make it last long enough to mutter;

"I want to go home. I want to get out of here."

"Your wish is my command. Well, half of it is; you're getting out of here today."

This time when I jumped out of my skin, it didn't hurt. I gave my semi permanent guest visitor a glare. It didn't work, as was usual these days.

"Don't tease, that's not funny. They said I had to stay in for at least another two weeks, even with the successful regen."

Mike waved his arm.

"Pooh, nothing of the sort. You're cleared for take-off. The Boss has taken care of the inevitable paperwork; yada yada shot in the line of duty, you know the drill. Your heart and lungs are as good as ever. They've even given the go-ahead for some moderate physical exercise."

"Oh joy."

My mind went straight back to 1940 and that frantic run, mostly uphill, to Chris' house during the air raid. I'd promised myself then that I was going to get in better shape.

Something Mike just said finally made it through to the front of my brain. I peered at him with suspicion.

"What do you mean by 'half of it'?"

Mike looked sort of shamefaced. When I say 'sort of', can one be '_gleefully_ shamefaced'?

"Well, they do want to know that you won't be on your own, for at least the first week."

Okay, so now I was _very _suspicious.

"Hmm?"

"It's up to you, really. Your family are not available locally, so you can either move in with me, or I'll move in with you. It's your choice."

He saw my murderous expression and hurriedly tacked on another few words.

"...of course, it's just a temporary arrangement, until the Medics say that you're okay to go solo."

I was silent while I contemplated the choice I didn't really have. Stay here and die of boredom, or risk ruining my friendship with Mike. I could already see the tension building in his face with the delay in my response.

"Okay..."

He sagged, limp as a five day old 1940's lettuce.

"Really? That's great. I thought you'd put up more of a fight."

"...however, there are conditions."

"Ah."

I could tell he was thinking '_I thought there would be'_.

"We stay at your place. I don't want anyone prowling 'round my flat while I'm asleep."

Mike was too busy grinning to be insulted.

"Okay."

'We keep this to ourselves. Anyone asks, I'm staying with family."

"Yep."

_Chris!_

My head whipped round so fast I saw spots of light for a moment.

"What did you say?

Mike looked taken aback. At least it had wiped that silly grin off his face.

"What? I was simply agreeing with you."

If nothing else, my reaction had made my mind up for me. I was going mad sitting here all day. I had to stop seeing and hearing Chris at every turn.

"Sorry. I'm sorry. It's just so...so..."

I couldn't even tell him, but then he went and proved that I didn't have to say anything.

"Difficult. Yes, I have some idea what you're on about. Wanting someone who is unobtainable is never going to be easy. But you get through it, one day at a time, good and bad."

Now I felt ashamed as well as miserable.

"Do you want to change your mind about babysitting me?"

An odd expression flashed across Mike's face when I said _babysitting_ but it was gone before I could interpret it.

"No, of course not. Just think of it as charity to the rest of the staff here."

"I haven't been that bad, have I?"

Mike held both hands up, palms facing me, a lopsided smile on his face.

"I'm not saying anything. Now, c'mon and get your gear on. The MAD chair awaits."

I eyed the patiently floating chair with some distaste. I'd rather walk out of here, but it's the unit's policy.

"I wonder what twonks sat around a table discussing what to call that thing and came up with Magnetized Assisted Delivery?"

'Could be worse. I hear they turned down 'Droid Assisted Mobility, because there's still copyright on the use of the word 'droid, Super Assisted Delivery, Floating Unit Chair Transporter, Hover Unit Mobility for Patients and Totally Inspired Transporter, for obvious reasons, though I suspect the last one is an urban myth."

I was already laughing before Mike finished. I moved into the small bathroom and changed into some clean clothes that he had thoughtfully collected for me. Obviously, he – or someone – had already been rooting 'round my place after all.

"Christine collected the clothes. She said I have no dress sense."

I paused in the doorway and looked him up and down.

"Actually, you have very good taste in clothing. It's just that Chris-_tine _thinks that you're not fashionable in the obsessive up to date sense, like she is, away from work, that is."

I hope he didn't hear my voice wobble on _Chris._

"Following fashion slavishly is a waste of resources. Make do and mend ought to be your guide."

I nearly fell over.

"What!"

Mike did not look like a man who made do and mended. He always looked nicely turned out as my dear old Great Nan would say. She and Great Gramps are skiing abroad at the moment, and I get the occasional tipsy catch-up with their global wanderings. But I digress.

"_What_ what?"

"Make Do and Mend? _Really?_"

Mike grinned.

"No, not so much, but I'm trying to get in the swing of your..."

"Obsession?"

"No, not really. It's obvious that you have a natural affinity for history, I get it, but you've made no secret of your pet era, the nineteen forties."

I also got the unspoken message.

_If you like someone enough, you see what they like and then it becomes something else you can share, even if the object of your affection doesn't know._

"I don't know why I like it so much, I just do. I suppose that finding out I had ancestors there explains it."

"We _all_ had ancestors _all_ through the past.'

"Yeah, I know. But now it seems more real."

_And so much more personal._

Mike made a less than subtle attempt to change the subject while I packed my few things.

"So, Boss, any more conditions?"

I sighed.

"Uhuh. No channel swapping or surfing while I'm watching something, no sultanas in my Coronation Chicken, and no snoring. I need my sleep."

Although he was now behind me, holding the MAD steady while I climbed aboard, I could tell he was trying not to laugh.

"Check. No surfing, sultanas or snoring. My last sleepover didn't tell me if I snored, so I'm assuming I don't."

I was dying to ask him when – and who - that was.

Good Heavens, was I feeling a little flash of annoyance that he had someone stay over?

Focus. Snoring.

"Good to know. That you don't snore."

"Nope. Let's get you out of here. Next stop, Mi Casa."

X X X X X X X X

1940.

With the radio playing softly in the background, Foyle was sitting in his favourite chair trying to read a book. Before the war he would have had a tumbler of decent whiskey beside him to sip periodically while he unwound from the strains of the day, but now, nowhere was one to be had even if he had been prepared to pay the shocking price demanded of late.

After reading the same paragraph for the third time, he gave up and closed the book. He was too distracted to concentrate on its convoluted plot at the moment. He got up and turned the radio off, then returned to his seat. Something Sam had said a few days earlier had stuck in his mind and would not shift. She had been talking about an Agatha Christie book, Murder on the Orient Express. It was not much of a confession to admit that he hadn't read it; unlike Sam, he didn't want to read about murder when he had to deal with it at work. He certainly didn't want to keep seeing all the procedural errors, and the absurd science that claimed to be able to narrow down the time of death to within a few minutes.

What had stuck in his mind was Sam's comment about looking at the facts from another angle. From one side the facts seemed nonsensical, but seen from another direction, could any sense be made of them?

A little while later, having looked at his watch, Foyle was surprised to see how late it was. He would normally be in bed by now. He couldn't believe that so much time had passed while he was thinking. He got up out of his chair and stretched. He made sure the fire was safely banked and the guard in place before checking that he had locked the front door. Ten years ago he might not have worried, but the War and national shortages had made more people morally ambivalent.

Fifteen minutes later, his ablutions complete, Foyle was in bed. He unlocked the bedside drawer and took out the little notebook and pencil. He read through the pieces of information, both fact and idle speculation. He noted down Sam's comment about seeing facts from different angles. He absently chewed his lip while he was deep in thought. Eventually he gave a heavy sigh and returned the notebook to the drawer.

As he settled down for the night and reached to switch off the light he wondered if Lily had made it home and if she was all right. He thought back again over the conversations they had had at Carlo's. He thought about the flirting at work and smiled when he recalled her asking him where he wanted 'it', referring to his cup of tea. She made him think like a younger man instead of the reserved widower he knew himself to be. He thought about soulmates. He thought about Rosalind and Andrew. He worried about Andrew; flying was even more dangerous than simply being shot at on the ground. He prayed to whomsoever was listening that his son made it through the war in one piece. He'd like to see Andrew married with children before he died. Carrying on the family line, children, grandchildren, great grandchildren – though he'd be long gone by then.

_I wonder what the future will be like for them. An end to war I hope. People seeing the futility of it and learning to live side by side all over the planet. I very much doubt that, sadly. The Great war was now being called the First World War. That was a war to end all wars, and now here we are again, hiding under the stairs when the bombs fall, hoping that they'll hit elsewhere and leave us safe._

Naturally, thinking of the stairs made Foyle think of kissing Lily. Such urgency and pleasure in her unguarded response. Her sweet embarrassment about not even realising the raid was over.

Foyle suddenly frowned as he lay in the dark.

What about Lily's insistence that they would be safe at his house?

_How did she know? _

He remembered his fear about getting to a shelter in time. Lily wasn't afraid, not in the way that he had been. She had suddenly seemed different, as if she had stepped out of herself for a moment. What had she said? Something about where he would have been instead of being with her.

_'If you hadn't met me today, where would you be right this minute?'_

Thoughts battered at Foyle's memory thick and fast now; he tried to look at them from another angle.

Lily's peremptory demand about the directions to his house and their sprint to safety. Her refusal to go to the shelter. Almost...almost as if she had _known_ what was going to happen, or rather, _not_ happen; she had known that his house would be safe.

Foyle didn't believe for a moment that people could predict the future; all the so-called 'psychic' incidents he had read about in police files had been simply situations where unhappy and vulnerable people had been duped out of money with empty promises. Lily just didn't seem the type.

Had she left more clues, like the one she had left about the tin under the floorboards? Another book, perhaps?

Book.

Lily had been reading a book; when he had gone to see her about not joining him and Sam for lunch, there had been a book close by on the side table, a bookmark tucked in the page she had reached.

H. G. Wells.

_The Time Machine._

Foyle's common sense rejected the preposterous idea that popped straight into his brain immediately. No. That was ridiculous and impossible. It simply could not _be._

_But the impossible has already happened,_ his traitorous brain slyly informed him. A young woman had vanished into thin air right in front of him. Wasn't he in the least bit curious as to where she had gone?

Of course he damn well was.

With a heaviness in his chest, Foyle reviewed the information he had in the light of the new possibility. Could all the anomalies be answered with the words 'yes, because she came from the future'?

Lily's sudden appearance in front of the car, at the edge of a park, as if from nowhere. Her unusual use of language and odd speech patterns. Her unfamiliarity with common everyday items; more things impinged on Foyle's mind now that he was looking for them. His overhearing her comment about plugging in her typewriter. Her simple joy over figuring out how to light the stove at work. He suddenly remembered Lily looking at the bread knife with such fascination. _As if she hadn't seen anything quite like it._

Foyle thought it all through, all the odd bits and pieces. He turned on the light and took out Lily's hidden letter from the drawer. Re-reading it now, words took on a different significance. '_Up until the end of 1940' –_ as if 1940 had already ended from her point of view. Several times the word _future_ seemed to leap out at him. Her advice about investments and stock purchases. _Do not spend more than I have suggested; I don't want you drawing attention to yourselves._

Which to Foyle meant that she wasn't supposed to have told him the information. She said once '_I'm supposed to blend'_. And more than once _'I could get into so much trouble', _and _'I'm breaking so many rules'. _It explained why he thought she was working for someone else. She had been _sent_ back.

Why?

It was probably dangerous, probably expensive. _Good God, did they even still use money? _

_If one were to apply the principle of Occam's Razor to all the 'evidence', then the simplest explanation for the whole business is that I have gone mad. However, as I don't think I am mad – who ever does? - then Sherlock Holmes has a better answer. When you have eliminated the probable, then whatever is left, however improbable, is your answer._

Foyle had been absently running his finger over the trinket box while he was thinking. He refocused his gaze on the delicate pattern and heard Lily's voice as she begged him to keep the box in the family.

_For the future?_

He hadn't really taken it in on the day she vanished, but now he remembered Lily had mentioned Sam. Something about not breathing without _him_.

Sam?

_Be patient, you'll have to wait a few years._

_Love always, Lily._

The heaviness in Foyle's chest settled in. He knew now that he would never find Lily, no matter how hard he looked. He put the letter away, locked the drawer with its notebook inside, then switched off the light and lay back in the dark. He hadn't cried since Rosalind died, but this was the closest he had felt like it since.

Where are you Lily? Or should I say _when?_

_TBC._


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: Foyle's war is a copyright product, used only for entertainment purposes. No infringement intended.

Author: hazeleyes57

Title: What Will Be – chapter 11

Rating: 18 or M – mature adult.

A/N: Thank you again for your comments and encouragement, all very gratefully received. As a reward, I have another chapter already. Comments work almost as well as biscuits :-D

**What Will Be – chapter 11**

The present.

After giving me a quick tour of his apartment, Mike showed me to the spare bedroom. All I took in was a comfortable–looking double bed. Even the short drive here had left me tired and I was keen for some rest. Mike place my bag on the end of the bed.

"You look all in. Have a kip. Do you want anything before you rest?"

I smiled gratefully as I shook my head.

"No, it's fine. All I need is a glass of water and I'm good."

Mike nodded and turned to go.

"Mike?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For everything."

He nodded and gave me a small smile before leaving.

I opened the bag Christine had packed for me and discovered very quickly that she had found my sexy-but-impractical nightwear instead of the big T-shirts with a daft slogans that I use for everyday. I was faced with an array of silky, string-strapped, lacy confections that barely covered the essentials. I sighed, too tired to do anything other than pick the least revealing of them and fall into bed. I was out like a light.

I found out later that I slept for twenty four hours, waking only to drink water, take the tablets left beside the glass, and use the toilet. Mike, I assume, must have replenished my water, but I was unaware of when he did it.

I felt much more rested and I'd had some vivid dreams involving Chris that left me a little more _relaxed_. I smiled to myself and stretched expansively. Two things happened simultaneously.

The door of the room opened.

And I fell out of my lacy-not-quite-a-nightie.

After a frozen second mid stretch, I pulled the quilt up and hugged it, trying to act as if nothing had happened. I'm sure my face was red.

"Hi."

Mike's lips twitched, but he didn't comment on my garment failure.

"Glad to see you're awake at last. I've got you some food on the table, if you're hungry?"

To my surprise I was. Mike tactfully left so that I could get up and get covered. I went and found him in the dining end of the open plan living space.

Mike, it turned out, was a good cook. The food was light but nutritious, and I felt better when I'd finished it. After an awkward start, we regained the conversational tone we had found while I was in the medical unit. I was seeing a whole new side to Mike and it left me confused. Was I so changed that he now seemed different? Or had he changed too? When we talked it was almost like being with Chris again. The way Mike held his head when in contemplation, the sneaky way he'd be amused without actually laughing, the delicate way he'd say something short but succinct that would change my viewpoint.

I was feeling the same way I'd felt about Chris during my mission and it made me wonder if I was so fickle that I couldn't settle to a proper relationship. How could I be in love with Chris two weeks ago and now develop feelings for Mike?

"Lily?"

I came back to myself and found I was staring blankly at Mike.

"Yes?"

He looked amused. Could he sense my turmoil?

"I asked if you would like some tea?"

My other passion. I loved tea almost as much as Sam did. My mother is the same – she said it was in the family genes.

"Mmm, please, that would be lovely."

We talked while he made the tea and when he handed it to me, it was just as I usually had it. Obviously he had noticed at work. I was ashamed to realise that I didn't know his preferences.

Thinking of work made me think of something else. I looked at Mike's back as he collected his own tea.

"How have you squared this looking after me with the Boss? You're not using your leave, are you?"

Mike turned back to face me and leaned on the countertop. He seemed to find his tea fascinating.

"No. The Boss has granted me License Leave to look after you for the week."

I was impressed. Usually License was only granted to family members.

"Really? Wow. Normally you have to pull teeth out to get him to part with that. How did you get it? Are you blackmailing him over something?"

He laughed gently.

"No, no blackmail."

It wasn't until later that I realised that he hadn't answered my question.

We talked some more, until my head started to droop. I really wanted to stay awake, but my body knew better. In the end, Mike shooed me back to my room and brought me a fresh glass of water, by which time I was safely covered up in the bed.

"Well, two days down, and we've not killed each other. I reckon we'll do okay. What do you think?"

I looked at him in the dim light of the bedside table lamp and felt myself grin.

"Well, to be fair, I did spend half of it asleep. Gave you an unfair advantage."

Mike gave a dreamy grin.

"It certainly did."

Ooh, I could tell exactly what he was thinking.

"You rat. I thought you were a gentleman."

He contrived to look indignant.

"Nope, you must have me confused with someone else."

The humour died instantly with the unintentional truth. The sad thing was that I _had_ ascribed some of Chris' simple courtesy to Mike. I must have looked as stricken as I felt, because Mike sobered too.

"Sorry. It was just meant as a joke."

I could tell that he was telling the truth, so I just nodded and slid further down the bed. Mike took the hint and turned to leave. I didn't want to end the evening on this note, but I couldn't think of anything to say to fix it.

"'Night."

He stopped in the doorway and looked back to me.

"'Night, Lily. Don't forget your medicine."

"I won't, thanks. Sleep well."

"Yeah, you too."

I did fall asleep quite quickly, but it seemed only a little while later that I found myself in the middle of Hastings during a relentless bombing raid. I was trying to run for shelter, but I was running really slowly, as if I were trapped in molasses. I couldn't find Chris or Sam and I knew that it was imperative that I find them. Masonry and twisted metal barred my way in many places and the bombs were getting closer. Then I felt the now familiar thump in the back and I was falling, falling forever, unable to find the others.

I called out for help and my world started shaking.

February 1941 

Foyle walked into his office and wished for the satisfaction of smashing something, or at the very least to throw something across his office. Passing Sam in the corridor just now it was perfectly evident from her guilty expression that she knew more than she was telling about Andrew's disappearance. This was what he had been afraid of; Sam falling for a younger man. How utterly galling that it happened to be his own son.

"Christ, what a mess."

He rubbed his fingers over his forehead in an effort to soothe his frazzled thoughts and deal with the first problem at hand; Andrew's imminent arrest for desertion in a time of war. The rest could wait. He wished that Lily had told him that there would be bumps in the road ahead, but just to be told to be patient was beginning to wear thin. Foyle looked at his watch and cursed under his breath. He stalked to the door and yanked it open.

"Sam?"

A very sheepish Sam emerged from the staff room just along the corridor. She knew that the axe was going to fall and just who would be holding it. She sighed heavily and hitched up her chin. So be it.

"Yes, sir?"

"A word with you, please. In my office."

"Yes, sir."

She followed Foyle back into his office and the door closed on his words.

"Where is Andrew? And please don't tell me you don't know, because I -"

The airfield was bitterly cold, the wind whipped up miniature tornadoes that scattered leaves, dust and ground crew with equal efficiency. Andrew Foyle waited until his father had tactfully retreated a few paces before he focused on Sam.

"Look after Dad for me, won't you?"

She nodded, tearful, but trying to be brave.

"We'll look out for each other."

Andrew kissed her goodbye and ignored the residual guilt he was feeling for treating Sam so badly. She was a good sort, and he might have been able to make a go of it with her, but he didn't know what lay ahead and the war wasn't over yet.

Sam returned to Foyle's side and together they watched as Andrew climbed aboard the Spitfire and readied it for take-off.

"All right?"

"Yes, sir. All present and correct."

It was obvious that she was distressed.

"Well, I'll miss him. Will you?"

Her eyes red, Sam nodded.

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to become involved...well, I did, but..."

Seeing that she was unable to continue, Foyle took pity on her and smiled as he dipped his head close to her.

"Well, the Foyles, y'know...always have been hard to resist."

Sam laughed despite her misery and Foyle, senior, gained further ground in her heart.

"Absolutely, sir!"

The two of them watched Andrew's Spitfire take off and give a victory roll before heading off to Debden.

Foyle had never felt quite this conflicted. On the one hand he was going to miss Andrew dreadfully, but on the other hand he was grateful that his son would have little opportunity to pursue his romantic interest with Sam, except on paper. He knew Andrew well enough to know that patience was not one of his strong suites and before long there would be another young lady distracting him from the delays between him and Sam.

At least, he damned well hoped so.

April 1941 

Foyle looked at his desk and sighed. He hadn't need the reminder of his calender to inform him that it was six months since Lily had vanished. April. Where did the time go to?

Time.

He harrumphed. His mind still battled with the concept that Lily had come from the future, but he no longer questioned it. Subtle enquiries had yielded enough information to let him know that whatever resources Lily had at her disposal, they were very significant. There was enough evidence to demonstrate that Lily Davies had existed in all the ways that Lily had stated. But then he reasoned, if you have conquered the ability to travel in time, falsifying a few papers was probably small fry. He was considerably cheered by the thought that medical advances had probably made it possible for Lily to have been saved in her own time.

Lily had told him that he had to be patient. It was difficult for him to not allow that to affect his judgement about situations that he and Sam found themselves in, but he relied on his instincts to guide him. He made decisions based on his intellect as well as his instincts; going with his usual practise had served him well in the past – ironically – so they would in the future.

There was a knock on his office door and upon Foyle's bid to enter, Milner did just that.

"Sir, just got a report in that a body has been found on a farm out Pevensay way. Possibly a suicide, but we've been asked to investigate as a German plane crashed near there sometime last night and not all the crew are accounted for."

Foyle nodded and collected his hat and coat. No rest for the wicked. Or, indeed, the not so wicked.

"Find Sam and ask her to get the car, would you? I'll be along in a moment."

Milner nodded.

"Yes, sir."

He left and Foyle looked again at the date. Patience. But for how much longer?

He sighed again and wondered what today would bring.

Today brought Barbara Hicks. An interesting woman with a chip on her shoulder and a very low opinion of men. But she was amused by Foyle and he was intrigued by her. A dangerous combination, especially as Foyle was aware that Sam was still corresponding with Andrew and was considered - by Sam at least – to be 'his girl'.

It was just as well that he was out of earshot a couple of days later when Sam had a run-in with Joan, one of the two Land Girls assigned to Hugh Jackson's farm. Joan had referred to her as 'Lady Muck, keeping an eye on the sod-busters'. Sam had been feeling a little left out of everything, unsure of her use to anyone, and this unfair attack left her a quite taken aback. But that was nothing compared to the shock she received when asked if she was Foyle's _fancy _woman. By the time she had formulated even the most basic response, Rose had hustled Joan away and left Sam standing there with an odd look on her face.

_'Foyle's fancy woman.'_

Sam kept hearing the words, over and over. They followed her back to the hostel that night, stayed with her through a delicious evening meal and lasted all the way up to her bed for the night at the hostel. She had behaved with the utmost of respect and good conduct with the two men she worked with, just in case any impropriety should be perceived, but it didn't stop the words following her into her dreams.

Sam went to sleep trying to think only of Andrew. His letters of late had been a little patchy, their frequency dropping to one or two a month recently, but she blamed the war for disrupting the mail.

In her dreams her attempts to 'get fresh' with Andrew were thwarted by the fact that he kept turning into his father. She would start kissing Andrew, which was as nice as she remembered, but the kiss would deepen and become _masterful, _the way they were in the penny romances she used to read when her father wasn't about, and she would be caught up in the moment until she opened her eyes and found it was _Christopher _Foyle who had unlocked the passion.

As she hadn't actually covered much ground in that respect with Andrew, what with being a vicar's daughter, well brought up by both her parents, and with, admittedly, a lack of opportunity, she had had limited personal exposure to the sexual nature of humans. Working on her cousin's farm had given her sufficient information about practicalities but that wasn't the same. Although she did remember one occasion on the farm where one of the farmhands, a lad of about sixteen, had found her watching a stallion with one of the mares. She had been about twelve or thirteen and the boy had nodded at the stallion and grinned.

"Tough act to follow."

Young Samantha had no idea what he had been on about, or why the boy had walked off laughing at her confusion.

After a somewhat restless night that had left Sam yearning for some elusive thing that was outside her experience, she decided that some strenuous exercise was just what her father would have recommended. She asked at the hostel for some rough clothes to work in, with the intention of helping Rose and Joan on the farm with the potatoes. All she had to do was check with the Boss.

Which turned out to be no trouble at all, though she was gratified that he seemed to think that she contributed more to the team than just being his driver. The way he had said 'it's a pleasure' when she thanked him had left her with goosebumps.

Later, after all the twisted ends surrounding Hugh Jackson's murder had been tied together, both Sam and Foyle had learned a lot about themselves. Foyle had learned that he was not immune to the appeal of other women, which gave him a measure of empathy for Sam's feelings for Andrew, even if he didn't like the situation. Sam learned that she was not as sure of her feelings for Andrew as she thought, and wondered if she was lying to herself about the extent of their relationship. Her dreams – there had now been more than one – of the older Foyle were disturbing to her, but she couldn't honestly say that it was in a bad way and that worried at her conscience.

The journey back to Hastings was quiet, much to Milner's surprise.

The present.

"Lily! Lily, it's okay, you're safe here."

The shaking and noise had stopped. I was no longer in war-torn 1940, but back in my bed at Mike's apartment. The dim night light in the hall barely illuminated his silhouette as he perched on the side of the bed, with both his hands on my arms.

"Whuh?

"Bad dreams again?"

I looked at him and tried to focus on what he was saying.

"Bad? Yes, I was shot again. How did you know I've been having them?"

Mike seemed to become aware that he was still holding me and withdrew his hands. I missed their warmth.

"You had them a lot in the hospital. I'd put a hand on your arm or your foot over the covers and it seemed to calm you."

_How extraordinary. I had no idea._

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"That's okay. Do you think you can go back to sleep? Or do you want a warm drink, or something?"

I shook my head but then realised that he wouldn't know what I was saying 'no' to.

"No drink, thanks. I'm not sure I can go back to sleep yet, though."

Mike seemed a bit at a loss of what to do for me. He scratched his cheek with one finger in yet another achingly familiar gesture. He then absently tugged on his robe tie, making it more secure.

"Well, umm. Do you want me to stay and talk, or...?"

He shrugged, unable to suggest an alternate.

All I knew was that I didn't want him to leave yet, but I daren't look too closely at why.

"No, it's okay. You go back to bed. You'll get cold."

"Are you sure? You don't sound too brill."

"Yep. Go. Shoo!"

He got as far as the door.

"Mike?"

"Yeah?"

I sounded as sheepish as I felt.

"Can I change my mind?"

He hesitated in the doorway.

"Sure. I'll just be a minute."

He was true to his word and returned shortly. He'd donned a pair of pj bottoms. My eyes had adjusted to the light and the low slung pj's revealed a toned and flat stomach, with a nice amount of chest hair visible with the robe only loosely tied. I liked it better than the currently re-fashionable smooth look – yuk, far too juvenile for me.

The chest hair slimmed to a line that disappeared under the pj's tie. I'd heard Christine at work refer to it as the pleasure trail. I could see why.

But that didn't bother me right now. I was tired, cold and shaken. I just wanted to be held for a change. For once, I wanted to _not _be the strong or brave or independent one. For one of the very few times in my adult life, I just wanted someone to look after _me_. I felt very sorry for myself; it was a new experience.

Mike lifted the edge of the cover and slid in beside me. He tactfully bunched the quilt between us and it made me remember the night Chris spent on top of the bedding in his room, when he had insisted that I have the bed.

"You okay?"

"Better, thanks."

"You're shaking."

"Yeah, I know. Sorry. Just can't seem to stop."

"You want to talk about it?"

"Not really. They said at the unit to expect the flashbacks. It'll pass eventually."

"Try not to worry about it then. You're okay now."

Quite naturally he put his arm over me and tucked me gently to his front, spoon style, with the quilt still a thin layer between us. Considering how awkward it should have felt, I was actually comfortable. I could feel myself beginning to relax without really understanding why I had no problem with Mike's proximity.

Then it dawned on me.

I felt _safe._

TBC.


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: Foyle's War is a copyright product not owned by me. Characters are used for entertainment only. No infringement is intended. Episode speech used without permission, but credited to Greenlit and Anthony Horowitz.

Author: hazeleyes57

Title: What Will Be - C12

Rating: Safe for all but the most delicate of individuals.

A/N: Thank you to all who reviewed, it is always appreciated.

**What Will be – chapter 12**

March 1942

"Hey, Sugar!"

Samantha Stewart stopped dead and looked for the source of the comment. A young and not unattractive soldier stood in the foyer of the police station. The quality of his uniform and insignia thereon would have marked him as an American even if his voice had not already done so.

"Are you talking to me?"

He looked around and smiled at Sam.

"Don't see anyone else."

"Well, my name is not 'sugar'."

"What is it?"

Sam was mildly irked by the young man's obvious lack of manners, and it, too, was reflected in her tone.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm Joe Farnetti and I'm here to pick up my Captain." He looked Sam up and down in appreciation. "You a cop?"

"No, not really."

"Can I at least know your name?"

The American was persistent, Sam would give him that.

Against her better judgement and possibly her will, she was intrigued.

"Samantha."

Farnetti smiled. It was attractive and very white.

"Would you like to go to a movie with me?"

Sam didn't exactly recoil in horror, but those who knew her would have been able to detect the frost from ten feet away.

"No thank you. We don't know each other."

Farnetti didn't seem at all fazed by her reaction; if anything his smile widened, but Sam was not happy with the further breech of etiquette and exasperation coloured her response.

"Are all you Americans like this?"

Farnetti took this as encouragement and asked Sam out again just as her boss approached. Foyle took in the situation in an instant.

Leaving Keiffer with Farnetti, Foyle looked at Sam.

"Everything all right?"

Sam smiled and nodded. She could deal with it.

"Yes, it is."

As the Americans left, Foyle's lips tweaked upwards.

"Clark Gable?"

Sam's smile widened to a grin.

The present

When I woke up the next morning, I felt warm and rested. Then I remembered last night and turned to face the other half of the bed. It was empty. Mike had gone. The sheets were cool to the touch; he'd obviously left some time ago, probably shortly after I'd fallen asleep.

Yet again I was aware of my feelings of disappointment that he'd gone. Was this transference? Am I thinking of Mike because he reminds me so much of Chris? It's difficult to think of one and not think of the other. I wonder what Chris is doing now?

The reality of it crashed down on me. Chris isn't _doing _anything. He is dead and long gone. Just like Sam and Milner and the others.

I turn back over and push my face into the pillow. My tears are silent, but I want to howl out my misery. I daren't do that as I fear that once I start, I won't be able to stop.

I froze when I heard the door to the bedroom open. I wondered if I could get away with pretending to be asleep.

"C'mon, Lily. I know you're awake. Sit up and eat something, you'll feel better. Nothing like food to chase away your fears."

That's _so_ not true.

"_Not hungry_".

My voice was muffled in the pillow, but Mike heard me anyway.

"That's a common side-effect of surgery and depression talking. Eat, then we can go out. Get some fresh air."

"Don't _want_ to go out."

A mug clunked onto the bedside table and the amusement in Mike's voice was obvious.

"Now that's your inner four-year-old speaking."

I felt the bed dip as he perched beside me.

"And the quickest way to get a child's attention is through the seat of their pants."

What?

He wouldn't dare, would he?

Just how well did I know him?

"Five seconds, the choice is yours. Four seconds...three..."

"Need I remind you that I'm your boss?"

"...seconds, two seconds..."

I turned over quickly, getting my backside out of range.

"Okay, okay. I'm sitting up."

Mike's smirk was an unfamiliar expression for me; I'd never seen it at work. I looked at my mug instead. Tea, thank goodness, I was really thirsty.

After I had taken a restorative sip, I allowed myself to look at Mike. Would he really have..?

As if I'd spoken, Mike nodded.

"Yep."

I took another sip of tea.

I was in strange territory. Mike was neither boyfriend nor stranger. I knew the work persona well enough, had read his file when he joined the team years ago. He had been living with someone back then, but they had split up within four months and I'd never met the ex. Mike always seemed to be at work and I assumed that she didn't like the hours he was keeping, though they were his choice. Again, it didn't occur to me until now that I'd only noticed his hours simply because I was at work as well.

That time seems a lifetime ago now. I feel like I've been drifting since I returned – not going anywhere, not focused. I felt more alive being chased by bombers in Hastings than I ever have in my real life.

Mike shifted and brought my attention back to the present.

"Lily, stop thinking so hard, you'll sprain something. After you've had something to eat, we'll go out somewhere. I'll even go shopping, I know how women like that."

I pulled a face and muttered into my mug.

"If you could have offered that _without_ the full-body shudder it might have worked."

April 1942

Foyle made a perfect cast and his fly landed just as he desired.

Occasionally there were the moments like this when the war seemed very far away. It was quiet; except for birdsong and the gentle rustle of the trees, the riverbank was almost silent.

Captain John Keiffer nodded in appreciation of the cast before he made his.

_The slightly-built English cop knew his stuff. _

Keiffer figured that it was best to keep on the good side of the locals where possible, but Foyle had been one of the few who had actually made it a pleasant task for him. He had enjoyed their first angling session together so much that he 'angled' for another one.

They'd spoken a little and fished a fair piece, though he had been more successful than Foyle in that regard, to his surprise. Although he had only known Foyle a few days, he had picked up the distinct impression that the detective had had something on his mind for much of the morning.

Maybe the fishing would help relax.

The Good Lord knew they both needed it.

Twenty minutes later Foyle tutted under his breath as a good sized beauty slipped away at the last moment. It didn't happen often, but it was galling to have lost such a prize for tea.

"Bad luck, old man."

Keiffer's smile belied the comment and Foyle merely raised an eyebrow, his look telling.

They decided to pack it in for the day and walked back, talking quietly of this and that.

Foyle had been subdued when the Captain spoke of having heard from his family that morning. For the hundredth time he wondered how and where – or, indeed _when_ – Lily was faring.

"Christopher?"

From his tone, Foyle assumed that this wasn't the first time the Captain had tried to get his attention.

"Sorry?"

Keiffer smiled and held up his catch.

"I asked if you'd like to join me in making a meal of these guys?"

Foyle looked mildly surprised by the invitation.

"You cook, too?"

Keiffer grinned and Foyle caught a glimpse of the husband and father.

"Only outdoors on hot coals. I'll leave these to the Mess chef. He'll take care of them; he'll give them the respect they deserve."

"In that case, I'd be delighted."

"Great."

They walked on.

"Family or female?"

"Pardon me?"

Keiffer stopped, forcing Foyle to do the same.

"When a man is so lost in thought he doesn't think about how good his catch will taste, it's either family or a dame that's taking him away."

Foyle looked at him with new respect, but unlike the fish, he didn't take the bait.

"Mmm, well, I was just wondering whether or not American forces catering stretched to a dry white with the fish."

Foyle's barely-there smile offset the cheek of the request; Keiffer wasn't fooled by the misdirection, but allowed it to pass.

"Ah, now there's a man after my own heart. White it is."

They resumed walking. Keiffer thought of home and family.

So did Foyle.

The American's dance evening had been memorable for all the wrong reasons. Having a local girl murdered under their noses was bad enough, but Foyle had allowed his personal feelings to get the better of him.

He had been surprised but pleased when he realised Sam was at the dance. His ebullience lasted until the moment Farnetti had asked her if she would like to try the Jitterbug. While Sam wasn't actively encouraging the American boy, she certainly wasn't trying too hard to discourage him, and his feelings of dismay were further inflamed by the annoyance he felt on his absent son's behalf.

Or at least, that was what he told himself.

Sam and Andrew had an understanding, whether he liked it or not, and he didn't approve of her flinging herself all over the dance floor in such a public display with the American soldier. Even if it gave her some fetching colour in her cheeks.

He had been further embarrassed to admit, however briefly, that he had been relieved that the commotion out in the corridor had stopped the dancing, until he realised that a young woman had lost her life.

Really, it was just too much. He was behaving like a fool, and an old one at that.

So two days later, when Sam haltingly explained to him that Andrew had thrown her over for another girl and had done so before the Dance, Foyle felt like a complete idiot. It was not a comfortable feeling and he knew that he should apologise.

It had been a tough day, but they had finally got Carter to confess to killing Susan Davies and her unborn child. Foyle's quiet satisfaction as he prepared the arrest report was tempered by thoughts of Lily, which often happened when he was trying to type, plus the knowledge that he had yet to apologise to Sam.

He got his opportunity a short time later, just as they were leaving the station. He caught up with Sam and stopped her from leaving. His hat still in his hand, he spoke quietly.

"Listen; I should apologise. I've made, umm...judgements about you, about your personal life, which I had absolutely no right to do and as a result, I, ah, I might have spoken out of turn."

_No 'might have' about it._

Sam flushed, embarrassed for a variety of reasons, some of which she didn't wish to examine too closely.

"It's quite all right, Sir. I should have said something earlier."

Foyle wasn't ready to be forgiven yet.

"Well..."

But he can't think of anything to add, except to express his sympathy regarding his wayward son.

"I'm sorry about Andrew."

Sam met his gaze bravely. She shrugged.

"It's the war, isn't it?"

_My son didn't deserve you. He had no idea of your worth. A prize above rubies._

"I suppose so."

They moved toward the outer door of the station together. When Sam asked if he would like a lift home, he declined. Foyle didn't trust himself not to say something to her. The time was not right and it would be most inappropriate.

Foyle said that he would walk, and left her standing in the reception area before he could change his mind.

_Christ, I could do with a drink._

As if by command, Captain Keiffer's jeep pulled up beside Foyle, and when the offer of Jack Daniels was dangled in front of him, he saw no reason to decline.

The present.

I dreamed of Chris again last night.

Some days I don't think of him much at all. Mike keeps me entertained, though I think the word 'distracted' would suit the situation better. It's been over a month now since my return and I'm feeling more like my old self, except for the lingering tiredness and tendency to mope, neither of which troubled me before my assignment. Mike is back at work now that I don't need mothering and I've moved back to my own place, though to be honest, Mike is here so often that it's almost like he's moved in.

Other days I feel the loss of Chris as if it were yesterday.

I went into work yesterday. Not to actually work as such, just to get back into the swing of things, pick up the pulse of the current missions, and see what's what. My team were pleased to see me back, I think. They'd all been out to visit me while I was recuperating, so I didn't feel neglected, and it was obvious from their greetings that Mike had kept them informed as to my progress.

No-one's behaviour was anything other than I would have expected, except for The Boss.

As I've said before, he's a snazzy dresser and great party animal. But as The Chief, and my boss, he's a sod. Runs the department like an accountant and a rude one at that. So when he comes out of his office and asks me how I'm feeling, I confess all I felt was surprise.

I told him I was improving all the time, just a little tired, you know the stuff I mean. He was nodding the whole time, which was weird. And he smiled, which was weirder still. It was quite unnerving. I made a mental note to ask Mike about it later.

That was another thing. Miss Independent here had started thinking things like 'I wonder what Mike thinks about such and such' and 'What is Mike's opinion on blah blah blah'. It was very out of character for me. Correction, for the 'old' me. Most evenings when Mike came over, he'd cook, then we would sit at the table to eat and talk about anything and everything. Last night he had been in the middle of describing his first attempt at Jet-Skiing when he was a little kid; he'd been laughing about some techy hitch that kept dumping him in the water. He was animated and interesting and had me caught up in the tale, making me laugh so much my face ached.

Later in the evening we were talking about stuff we watched on the flats when we were little. No 3D, no neural nets, no quality viewing, but still fun. Mike was demonstrating a salute from some old prog and I just couldn't copy it, much to his amusement.

"No no no! Like this; put that finger there, then _this_ like _that_, see?"

Exasperated with my puny efforts, he grabbed my hand and moved my fingers into position as he explained, but suddenly I couldn't hear what he was saying any more over the rushing sound in my ears. Believe it or not, it was the first time he had deliberately taken hold of me since that night he held me while I slept. I had a sudden and profound feeling that something important had just happened; something had shifted inside me, as if settling into place, and instead of scaring me witless – which it should have – I simply felt all _right. _

I must have laughed in all the right places, because Mike didn't appear to have noticed my distraction. I had only felt such a feeling like that once before.

_Sparkage._

TBC.


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: Foyle's War is a copyright product, fan fiction only for entertainment purposes. No infringement intended.

Author: Hazeleyes57

Title: What Will Be – chapter 13

Rating: U or T, nothing too saucy ;-)

A/N: I have incorporated a couple of snippets from The Russian House, but nothing too spoiler-ish.

**What Will Be – Chapter 12a**

The Present.

I can't sleep.

I turned over in my disarrayed bed, searching for the comfy place that will enable me to get to sleep. I bashed the pillow and turned it over to the cooler side. My covers resumed their memory-shape and settled around me.

Even that annoyed me. I yearned for crisp, resistant cotton, and heavy scratchy blankets.

After another half an hour I gave up. I lay on my back and let myself think.

I took myself back to the beginning of this situation. The letter from the past that changed my future.

Why me?

Why did _I_ have to go back?

_Because it was my ancestor that was in danger of not taking the right path; of not taking the course that led to me. _

I frowned in the dark.

I thought of the Chief's odd behaviour today. All that smiling had been unnerving.

I had another thought. The Chief had let me go on the assignment with hardly even a token protest. I was so keen to go that I didn't look too closely at what was happening around me before I left.

Mike had been in an odd mood that day too, now I recall.

My memory tends toward the visual; thinking back to the day I left, I can clearly see the underlying sadness in his expression. Almost as if he knew that I was going to meet Chris and fall for him.

Almost as if he _knew._

I was wide awake now. I sat up.

Mike was the department's best and most experienced programmer. I had always considered ours to be the Alpha Team, the one that got the best gigs and although I felt a little sorry that Mike had a 'thing' for me, I was always glad he was 'ours'. His emergency recall had probably gone a long way towards saving my life, particularly as he had already started the calculations.

He had _already_ started them.

My once secure world seemed to be unravelling. Was I seriously considering the thought that there was some big conspiracy to send me into the past and have my great-times-eight grandfather fall in love with me _deliberately?_

No. Don't be stupid; get a grip. In all the time I've been working we are so careful to avoid the dreaded Paradox. While I know it's not impossible, it is extremely unlikely.

Okay then. That must mean that I had to go back for another reason.

I lay back down, trying to put the conspiracy theory to the back of my mind. The timeline must have been repaired because I still exist. So that means that Chr...Foyle married Sam and had at least one child. The man that I met and accidently fell for, who, I'm reasonably sure, fell just a little bit for me, too.

Maybe that was the key. Would he have considered remarriage if _we_ hadn't opened up to the possibility of romance?

But why _me? _

I suddenly felt quite stupid. For the first time in awhile it occurred to me that I might not have all the facts to hand. Supposing Chris wasn't the only one who had to learn from this experience? It wasn't outside the bounds of possibility that someone else had something to learn.

Like Sam, for example.

She had certainly had her fair share of men flocking around her, but apart from Barbara, there hadn't been hordes of women flocking around Foyle with any seriousness. Perhaps I'd been there to shock her into noticing Foyle as a _man_. But, again, why _me?_

Hmmm.

I made myself comfortable on the pillows and went through all the data that had been collected about the jump before I left; the file I had asked for about a certain DCI and his feisty sidekick had been part of my info dump. I'm sure much of their story had been left out, but there were case files that had survived the Second World War and the others after it. I also still had access to Sam's Diary. I ran through it all now, regardless of relevance; I no longer needed to worry about getting ahead of myself, time-wise.

_Oh, poor Paul! I can't believe anyone would think for a minute that that lovely man would kill his wife...Chris gets a new family with his niece and her son, while Sam..._

"...manages to get herself blown up yet again..."

I shook my head. How did she manage to get away with it all?

Illegal rambling? Ha, good one. Sam could have done with an electric typewriter; she could make her mistakes far more quickly.

I huffed with amusement.

I was heartened when I found an entry in Sam's diary for April 1944 where she had faithfully recorded the comment 'dear Mr F' had made about her possibly returning to working as his driver.

_'Well, I've thought about little else.'_

_30th April 1945;_

_Oh Yippee! Blackout has officially ended. Five years and 123 days since it started. I can finally walk out after dark without worrying that I shall fall into a ditch or trip over a courting couple (well, it was only once, and I did apologise)._

The next snippet made me gasp.

_4th May 1945._

_Andrew asked me to marry him today. It was nice in one way to have a proposal, but he really made it very matter of fact; 'why don't we..?' Rather than 'I love and desire you, be mine forever'. I rather feel he's missed the point. He's changed, older, more than his years. The War, I suppose. Thank God it's over. But I don't feel 'that' way about Andrew anymore. I most certainly don't want his father as my father-in-law. He will never notice – or acknowledge noticing – that things have forever changed between us?_

I puzzled over that last entry. Was Sam referring to Andrew or Christopher?

I also had no idea that Andrew had proposed to Sam.

_I said that I thought only of him as a friend. He thinks he can wear me down. Were my feelings not engaged elsewhere, maybe he could have done, but I'm holding out for love, real love, the one love that I will chose to be with, not the one I'd settle for. Does that make me selfish? Marrying Andrew for the wrong reasons would be an injustice to him, to me, to love and especially to his father. My father preaches that for all things there is a season. I think, for now, that I'll wait._

Sensible girl. Or young woman, I should say.

_Paul's wife Edith has just had a little girl, they're going to call her Clementine after Mr Churchill's wife...it was quite dramatic; the baby started at the station – probably couldn't wait to join the excitement! Mr F drove them to the hospital. I was quite shocked; I didn't think that he could drive. He told me later that he simply didn't want to drive. I said to him that he never needed me after all. I felt quite spiffy when he replied that he 'wouldn't say that'. I do wonder what this new world order will bring at a local level. I do think that the future will be quite a different kettle of fish._

The Future. Well, yes, it had been a very different kettle of fish indeed.

I suddenly felt really shattered, as if I'd been exercising for hours. I shut off the diary, slid down in the bed and closed my eyes.

I had a vague thought about Clementine Milner and wondered what she had looked like. A fuzzy black and white image popped into my head of a toddler in bonnet and knitted jacket sitting in a baby carriage, then a child at the seaside, a young girl in her teens - in the early nineteen sixties I'd say, her short skirt very brightly coloured, a young bride blushing - in full colour video now - beside an equally young man. Three children of their own joined them; the picture clarity improved with the passing years and generations until I was overwhelmed with faces of strangers that bore little resemblance to Paul and Edith.

I stopped the images, taking a few minutes to relax my overworked brain. I really wanted to take the same journey through Sam's future, but I wasn't sure I was ready for that trip yet. I wasn't even certain about what I wanted to find. I wanted Chris to be happy with Sam, but, impossibly, I wanted him for myself – again. I couldn't ignore how I felt. I felt a sudden shiver go through me; supposing Chris had been _the_ one...

No. He was Sam's, I was sure of it. Besides, there must occasionally be more than one match per person, or a helluva lot of people get together and/or married for reasons other than love. I mean, look at me. Whining over a man that I would never have been able to meet at all if it hadn't been for my work.

Plus, I couldn't forget that unexpected _frisson _with Mike.

I had more to think about, but now I was finally tired. I think my last thoughts were about starting a diary and I was just deciding on whether or not to splash out on the expense of a real paper one, when I slid into sleep.

April 1947

Foyle woke up earlier than was usual for him. He couldn't blame the early morning sunlight or the familiar sounds outside of people on their way to work, he simply no longer wanted to sleep. Since his now permanent retirement was in effect, he was quite caught up with his rest.

He turned his back to the curtained windows and caught sight of the little trinket box. He hadn't opened the box for several weeks; he was trying to push the past to where it belonged – back in the past. Lily. Sweet, funny, dear Lily.

_Love Always._

Foyle picked up the box and ran his hand over its surface, feeling the delicate decoration, and allowing himself to remember as much as he could about Lily. He knew with sudden clarity that he was saying goodbye to that chapter of his life. He would never see Lily again, he knew it. His memories of her were in no danger of being idolised; she was real and fallible and lovely. He missed her, but it was time to move on. He just wished he had had the chance to say goodbye properly.

Suddenly energised, Foyle threw back the bedcovers and climbed out of bed. He had been patient long enough, it was time to get going.

Time may seem to stand still, but the future is always coming and he wanted to meet his end without regret for what he should have done with his life.

Samantha Stewart wandered along East Beach Street, the sea, gleaming and blue on her right, the buildings and the road to her left. Her brain pointed out various pieces of information that it thought she would like to know, but her uppermost thoughts were not of the early morning sunshine lifting the light sea mist, nor the wheeling and cawing of boisterously squabbling seagulls above her head.

She frowned as she regarded the pavement at her feet. She wondered if years from now people would realise that the slightly mismatched paving along the seafront was where the path had been repaired when the guns had been removed after the war ended.

She sighed heavily for the umpteenth time. She was distracting herself from the task she needed to do and she knew it.

Life wasn't always plain sailing. She had had difficult moments in her past - her memory of finding both Lily and Christopher in a state of partial undress and her own subsequent flight to this very spot seemed suddenly very vivid, No doubt, given her tendency to act first and think later, she would have difficult moments again, but right now, she was thinking of the future, her own future specifically. The War was long over. Her purpose in life was in a state of flux. She was out of uniform now, and out of a job since _he_ had retired - again. The economy was in decline and probably would be for years to come, the returning men had gone back to work, displacing the women, who were left with few options.

Sam stopped at the junction of Rock-A-Nore Road and The Bourne. She crossed the road and her feet carried her along The Bourne without any real sense of purpose, as if they knew that the part of her that was in charge didn't really have both oars in the water. The same lacklustre amble turned her left into Courthouse Street, where the slight incline hinted at the fact they were moving away from the seafront. At the top of the lane Sam turned left onto the High Street, where a couple of the bombed shops were in the process of being rebuilt. The already irregular buildings would have some newer additions to their fine, if shabby, Georgian neighbours.

Having sighed heavily again, Sam caught the aroma of baking bread on the air and her stomach rumbled. Having left without having any breakfast (_what would father say?)_ Sam realised that she was quite hungry now. She hurried along to the bakery to see what was available. Five minutes later, the purchase of four crisp rolls, still warm from the oven, cheered her temporarily.

The incline of the road became steeper along Swan Lane, but it didn't bother Sam at all. Her stride had gained purpose. If she came bearing gifts maybe her news wouldn't seem so bad.

_Maybe my news won't bother him at all. He doesn't really need me any more. His book is finished – no more illegal rambling to be had. He can drive, but doesn't have anything to drive anyway._

Her internal musings had carried her past the old Parish Church and along the lane to the steps at the foot of _his_ house. She wondered only briefly if it was too early to call on her former boss before taking the steps up tothe front door.

Foyle had only just got the kettle on when he heard the heavy knocker bang. Frowning in surprise, he checked that he was decent before he went to open the door.

"Sam."

Having been thinking of this lovely young woman only a few moments ago, Foyle was taken aback to see her standing there in the flesh. He hadn't seen her for at least a month.

Sam didn't take in much more than the frown and the dressing gown.

"Oh, sorry. Have I come at a bad time? Did I get you out of bed? Oh, I knew I should have waited longer, I -"

Foyle allowed only a small part of his grin to escape in a gentle smile as he interrupted her with the ease of old.

"Not at all, Sam. I've just got the kettle on, would you like a cup of tea?"

As always, her smile lit up her face.

"Oh, yes, please. That would be heavenly."

Her relief palpable, she stepped into the hall. As the door was closed behind her, she proffered the paper bag.

"I passed Judges on the way here; the smell was so good I picked up some rolls for breakfast."

"That was very kind of you. They do smell wonderful."

Foyle took the paper bag and indicated that she should precede him to the kitchen. Sam appeared quite at home there and for a small moment, Foyle allowed himself to imagine her there on a less temporary basis.

It was the work of only a few minutes to set out plates, knives and teaspoons, butter, jam and conserves to accompany the rolls, but it gave Foyle time to think. He made the tea, a generous full pot that would easily do for a refill each and then took the chair opposite Sam's.

"This is very nice, Sam, but it will taste better if I can put to rest whatever is bothering you first."

Her dismay was almost comical. She dipped her head and fiddled with the sleeve of her cardigan for a moment before lifting her head and giving a wry smile.

"I don't need to ask how you know, do I?"

Foyle didn't answer, he just raised his eyebrows as if to say 'out with it' while he poured the tea.

"Well, the long and short of it is that I'm out of work again."

Foyle paused in surprise.

"I thought that you were doing well with the Clement family; helping with the children and the household, wasn't it?"

Without her bidding, Percy Clement, age four and already a trial, popped into Sam's head. As for his mother...

"Yes, it was, in the beginning, but the oldest boy is a complete beast; since her husband's return from deepest darkest abroad, Mrs Clement has taken to her bed indefinitely, and she has developed odd fancies."

Foyle had been about to take a sip of tea, but he paused, his cup halfway to his lips. An eyebrow tweaked upwards.

"Odd fancies?"

Sam nodded; her voice was forthright with innocence, but her cheeks were tinged in pink.

"Yes. She seems to think that I'm after her husband."

Foyle's teacup hesitated again.

"After her...?"

"Husband, yes. According to her I've been chasing him all over the house, attempting to seduce him into leaving her high and dry."

Foyle's tea cup clattered onto its saucer. He suddenly felt very under-dressed in only his pyjamas and dressing gown. The image of Sam running around a house in seduction mode was disconcerting to say the least. However, the idea that there was any truth in it was ridiculous.

Wasn't it?

Unbidden, the half finished sketches of a nude Sam popped far too easily into his head.

"I take it that there's no...that is to say, Mr Clement...?"

Sam happily sipped her tea, oblivious to Foyle's inner turmoil.

"Oh, no. Mr Clement is an absolute sweetie. I don't know what happened to him exactly, a prisoner of war in Japanese hands from what I can gather, but he doesn't pay me any attention at all, other than to thank me for the help with the children and his wife. But she's got this idea into her head and she's making his life difficult."

Foyle had another go at his tea.

"I see."

Sam had already made progress with the first half of a roll, and chewed thoughtfully.

"Of course, if you ask me, it has more to do with three children in four years before he left than anything I've done. Or not done, as such."

Foyle blinked.

Sam reached for the jam again.

"So there you have it. I had to go, but they gave me two weeks severance in lieu of notice, and a reference. Well, _he_ did, anyway."

"Umm, well, that's something."

Foyle was somewhat at a loss as to what Sam wanted him to do about a situation that appeared to be as resolved as it was likely to get. He didn't have to wait long.

"The thing is, I've heard from my father again. Uncle Aubrey accidentally let slip that I was off the leash again; he didn't mean to, poor soul, but you know my father, drip drip drip, until you give in."

"Oh."

Foyle didn't like the direction this appeared to be taking.

Sam sighed heavily. Foyle had the impression that it had not been for the first time today.

"The thing is...well, in Father's eyes the 'good works' I was doing for the War Effort was eventually decided to be a good thing – with your help, of course – but now that the war is over and I'm free, or at least available... Mother is unwell again, and they're both getting on a bit – his words, not mine, he's only fifty-nine for goodness sake, hardly in his dotage, anyway, he's decided that I have to return home."

The last part came out in a rush.

Distressed, but trying to hide it, Sam took a hurried gulp of her tea.

Foyle's appetite disappeared and he put down the bread roll carefully.

"I...see."

And he did, all too clearly. Reverend Stewart wanted his daughter home to help with her mother, then there would be one extra little task, then another and another, until this bright and intelligent woman was buried under the burden of it all. A golden girl in a gilded cage and her father wouldn't even realise he was killing her spirit.

Sam was absently picking to pieces the last piece of bread roll on her plate. Her abrupt loss of appetite mirrored Foyle's own. Her eyes suddenly met his.

"I love my parents dearly, and I wouldn't mind going back to see them for a while and help out for a week or two, but not...forever. Does that make me a bad daughter?"

Foyle shook his head.

"Of course not. Simply a realist. Can't you tell him you have another job already lined up?"

"I could, but he'd want details, then I'd elaborate, but forget what I'd added on, then I'd contradict myself and he'd just _know._"

"Umm. Difficult."

He contemplated the top of Sam's head as she looked at her hands, which were still abusing the bread. He knew for certain what he wanted; had known for a long time, but now was not the right time. She would question his motives.

Sam looked up suddenly and caught him staring. In all the time she had known him, there had only been a handful of occasions where she had been able to tell what he was thinking. Whatever she had been about to say lodged in her throat. She had been thinking about her parents and her lodgings, and the fact that she was dipping into her meagre savings to pay her rent, but those thoughts had been instantly derailed. Her heart swooped and plunged, making the breath in her lungs hitch.

_No, it couldn't be; it just couldn't. _

The moment was passed in an instant; Foyle's expression was shuttered again, his thoughts hidden as before, but now Sam felt quite different. She wasn't sure yet what to do, armed with this new suspicion, but she suddenly felt a lot more optimistic about the future.

Her tone was therefore quite bright.

"Don't suppose there's another cup in the pot?"

The present.

Another morning and I'm still here; whatever happened, it worked. Is still working. Whatever. I looked at the time and turned back over to try to get some more shuteye. I'm so tired.

About one second later – though my watch confirmed it had been half an hour – I heard my entrance door chime, followed by the sound of the door opening. Either I had left the door unlocked (unlikely), I was being burgled (very unlikely), or Mike was being prudent in case I wasn't dressed yet. Though tired, I felt a puckish mood upon me. I grinned in anticipation.

"Hey, Mike, what took you so long? I've kept your side warm!"

It had become our running gag since the night he had soothed my nightmares away. It let me avoid thinking about how close we had become in such a short space of time. He always had some funny or witty or pithy comeback, and I was waiting for today's offering.

"Mike?"

He was taking far too long. I was suddenly wide awake and wondering who the hell had just let themselves into my place.

Just as I was wondering what I had available to incapacitate a burglar (bludgeon with slippers? Strangle with dressing gown belt?), I heard footsteps coming closer.

Call me old fashioned, but I'm fairly certain the criminal fraternity rarely wear high heels in the commission of a burglary.

A waft of very expensive perfume came my way.

I grinned and relaxed. I'd know that signature scent anywhere.

"Grammas, is that you?"

The very attractive older woman who stood in my bedroom doorway looked pained. She took off her designer sunglasses and peered haughtily at me.

"Just because I have passed my century is no reason to remind me of my grand-parenting status. Kindly call me Katherine."

The haughtiness fell away and we both laughed like drains. I hope I'm at least half as fit as her when I'm a hundred and five.

I clambered out of bed to hug my great grandmother, Katherine Keller St Just.

"Okay, Katherine it is. When did you and Gramps get back?"

She waved her sunglasses airily.

"A couple of days ago, but never mind that, my sweet. I'm far more interested in meeting this 'Mike' creature who apparently has a side being kept warm for his return. Do tell."

It wasn't a request.

But where to start?

Under Grammas penetrating stare I felt like I was fifteen again.

"He's a colleague of mine and a very good friend."

"I should hope so if he's sharing your bed, darling, but when did all this happen? We go away for a few paltry months, and look what happens! Our baby gets a boyfriend."

"Um, not exactly."

Grammas looked disappointed. Then she brightened.

"Friend with benefits?"

"_Katherine!"_

She waved her arm expansively.

"Oh, don't 'Katherine' me as if I've said something wrong. I may not be sixty anymore, but I'm not stupid. If he makes you happy, go for it."

Oh, thank goodness Mike wasn't here. I rubbed my forehead, trying to think. I couldn't tell my family the whole truth, my work was confidential, but I had to explain, or at least try to, without alarming Grammas.

"_There was an accident at work, and Mike has been keeping an eye on me. Don't worry, nothing's wrong or anything, I was just...um...shot."_

_Nope, couldn't say that. _

"Well, Mike is - "

"Right here, honeybun. Sorry I was so long with the croissants, but there was a huge queue. Did'ya miss me?"

In a move that looked as natural as breathing, Mike slid an arm around my back and pulled me to him; my heart rocketed around my chest like an old pinball. He kissed the top of my head and turned to my great grandmother with a grin and held his hand out.

"You must be Lily's Grammas. I've heard so much about you, I feel like we've met already."

Katherine raised a perfect eyebrow as she looked him in the face for the longest moment; I waited for the icy blast that would shoot Mike down in flames, as it had done to so many of my would-be suitors in the past.

_Oh, this is going to be awful._

TBC.


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: Foyle's War is a copyright product, not owned by me. Characters are borrowed within the allowances of fanfiction. No infringement is intended.

Author: hazeleye57

Title: What Will Be, chapter 14

Rating: M to be on the safe side.

A/N: Starts straight after the last chapter.

**What Will Be Chapter 14**

"Oh, I think I would have remembered."

My great grandmother accepted the proffered hand graciously.

"Call me Katherine."

Good heavens - was she _flirting? _It was a good job Mike was still holding on to me, or I might have slid to the floor.

"Thank you, Katherine. Are you joining us for breakfast? There's enough to go around."

Give him his due, he really sounded like he meant it.

Katherine smiled in a way that I recognised – innocent to the outsider, but it meant to me that she would require answers to many questions before I was much older.

"Dear boy, I wouldn't dream of it, but thank you for offering." She looked meaningfully at me. " Lily, we will talk later in the week."

_I bet we will._

"Lovely to meet you, Mike, I look forward to seeing you again."

Mike grinned, apparently all too aware of the undertones and amused at my obvious discomfort.

"I'm not planning on going anywhere."

Katherine gave him another penetrating look.

"Mmn."

She looked back at me and opened her arms. It was not duty that made me step forward into the familiar hug.

The warmth and perfumed memories would stay with me forever, long after she was gone, as would her _sotto voce_ verdict.

"_Keeper."_

Blimey. This was a day of firsts.

After seeing Grammas out, and still feeling somewhat bemused, I went to find my other visitor. Mike had been considerate enough to let me see my great grandmother off alone, and now he was waiting in my little kitchen with croissants and tea. I hardened my new heart against finding the scene too comfortable.

"You shouldn't have done that. Now I'm going to have to explain why you dumped me by the next family gathering."

That wasn't the real reason I was miffed, but it would suffice.

Mike handed me a warm buttery croissant on a plate. Just to be clear, I took it because I love croissants, not because I can be bribed. Mike looked at me as he took a bite of his croissant. He chewed thoughtfully and swallowed.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

It came out more like _Moo Wah? a_round my mouthful of food. I really should take smaller bites, especially in company.

"Assume that you will be 'dumped'."

I confess that I was confused. As far as I knew, I was not actually dating anyone at the moment. I said as much.

"Irrelevant."

_Oh yeah?_

This new assertive Mike carried on.

"I think you're more annoyed that I let your Grammas assume that we're together instead of letting you struggle to explain a situation that you're not allowed to explain. You're upset that I may have caused or will cause your Grammas some unhappiness."

_Bugger. Hit the nail right on the head._

"Okay. Lucky guess."

Mike moved closer to me. Any other person and I would probably have moved a step back to maintain the distance between us, but for some reason I didn't feel like that today. I watched him lick the buttery fragments of pastry from his fingertips and surprised myself with the thought that I would quite like to be doing that myself.

To him.

He took hold of my right hand and lifted it up. I couldn't seem to lift my eyes any further than the level of Mike's lips, but I could still feel him staring at me. Intently.

"I think you'll find I'm quite good at guessing."

My perfectly air conditioned apartment suddenly seemed to be rather warm. Watching with the impression that it was happening to someone else, I followed the movement of Mike's mouth as it closed over one of my fingertips. The sudden heat and the stroking lick of his tongue abruptly made the sensation feel very personal.

I am not one of the world's biggest fans of licking people's fingers; all seems a bit yucky to me. But I was discovering that it had either been performed incorrectly in the past, or had simply had been the wrong person doing it. Now it seemed perfectly natural and really rather...exotic. Normally by now I would be on the retreat, trying to get away from the licky weirdo, but here I am, mesmerised by the fact that Mike was now moving on to my next finger, and I'm not doing a damn thing to stop him.

I ought to be feeling self-conscious but I don't. I ought to be telling Mike that I'm his boss and this is not a good idea, but I don't. I ought to be worrying about whether I'm suitably trimmed, fluffed, plucked and scented for the possibility of where this might lead, but I don't. None of this thinking is going on in my front brain and I will only put this into coherent words later. Right now, for only the second time in my life, I am right _in_ the moment.

I don't know whether my dance with death has made me more prepared to take a chance, or if I just want to feel this distracted, but I'm going with the flow. The only thing on my mind is how quickly will Mike get to my next finger. Suddenly I can't get enough air into my lungs and I feel breathless and dizzy.

In what seemed like both seconds and hours later, Mike finished with my last fingertip, though he appeared reluctant to stop what he was doing. When he finally lifted his head, and looked at me, I could see the conflict and retreat in his eyes. Wherever I thought this was going, I was wrong. It was not a bucket of cold water over me, but it might as well have been.

"Lily..."

I waited for more after the gentle exhalation, but that seemed to be it. Eventually though, curiosity got the better of me.

"What?"

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't..."

I felt suddenly embarrassed and unsure. I didn't want him to finish the sentence and apologise or some stupid crap like that. I thought he liked me. Actually, I thought he more than _liked_ me. He can't just blow hot and cold like that, it's not fair. Disappointed, I pulled my hand out of his and went over to the sink. It meant that I could keep my back to him while I washed my hands. I made my voice bright.

"It's okay, just one of those things. Don't make such a big deal of it. Forget it. Look, forgotten, gone."

I couldn't see his face, but I heard another soft sigh.

"But what if I don't want to 'forget it', Lily."

_Then what do you want?_

Mike reached around me to turn off the water. He then rested his hands on the upper part of my arms. I could feel his breath on my neck and I shivered involuntarily.

He let go of me immediately and stepped back a pace. I realised too late that he had mistaken my quiver of excitement for a shudder of dislike. When I turned to look at him, his face was blank, like a mask.

"I'd better go. I have a couple of things I need to do."

I didn't know what to say. I don't think I've ever felt this confused. Mike seemed to be expecting me to say something, but when I didn't, he turned to go, with a casual 'see you later' over his shoulder.

I didn't follow him out. I was angry, upset, annoyed, conflicted and highly miffed that I was _so_ turned on with nowhere to go with it.

I snatched a couple of grapes from the bunch on the counter and threw them into my mouth, crunching and swallowing them quickly. As comfort eating went, it was a bit pathetic, but I was all out of cake. I took another grape and shoved that one in, too.

"Look, I don't want to leave it there -."

I squawked and I jumped out of my skin at Mike's sudden reappearance - I had no idea he hadn't left.

Two things happened simultaneously.

I inhaled the grape I had just put in my mouth.

And I started to choke.

I tried to breathe in through my nose only, but it didn't work. I had no air in my lungs to expel the fruit. I started to panic and tried to get air through my mouth, pulling the grape in further.

From Mike's expression, my flapping and the pointing at my throat was quite unnecessary. With a calmness that I would admire later, but at the time irritated me intensely in what appeared to be my last moments, he crossed the kitchen, stepped behind me and grabbed me around the waist. He balled his hands into a fist under my ribs and tugged hard. Without waiting for me to say if it had worked or not, he tugged again, pulling me tight up against him.

To my everlasting relief, the grape shot out of my mouth. Oh, the sweet pleasure of that first draught of air!

"You okay?"

I nodded, too busy happily breathing to speak.

"Thank God! I'm so sorry; I thought you realised that I was still here."

My heart may have been thumping like mad with the passing panic and my legs were still shaking, but I was far more aware of the fact that Mike was plastered up against me than anything else. Am I shallow, or what?

"N...no, I thought you'd left."

I sounded like a needy wimp. I tried to summon up some ire.

"You scared the wits out of me."

He must be able to feel me shaking.

"Yes, and I'm still sorry."

He didn't seem to have noticed that he hadn't let me go. His clasped hands were still under my bust, and his hips were...

_Oh my...!_

It appears that he does still like me after all.

May 1947

Sam looked glumly at the contents of her purse. A pint of milk, a loaf of bread and a lump of cheese for supper would take a chunk out of her change. It was a blessing that she still had fresh veg from the garden, but meat was looking increasingly unlikely.

"Well, could be worse."

The war was still a recent memory; things had been worse then, much worse. She still had her health and her lodgings.

Ah.

That reminded her; the rent was due the day after tomorrow. She hopped up from the table in the kitchen and checked the rent tin.

"At least I'm okay for this week."

Her severance pay would shore her up for a few weeks, but after that, it was back to dipping into her savings. Or going home to the Vicarage.

Neither would be her first choice.

But her first choice was dragging his heels somewhat.

After the promising start last month, Sam had hoped that dear Mr F would give her another glimpse of a future possibility. The unguarded expression on his face had surprised her, but it hadn't frightened her.

Sam carried her cup of tea in to the front room and took the armchair nearest the fire out of habit. The kindling was ready to light, but she was saving it until she was cold. Once she was comfortable, she allowed herself to think back to that moment of unconscious revelation. It hadn't been a simple expression. She had seen more than one emotion there. The main one, the one that gave her the most hope, was...well, _desire_ was the wrong word. It was more a sort of restrained _wanting_. Yes, the more she thought about it, the clearer it seemed. Of course he would think she was off limits, but he did _want _her.

It was a start, and a good one.

_Christopher. _

Mmm. She liked the sound of it in her head. _Sir_ and _Mr Foyle_ tripped off the tongue so easily it was unusual to think of him as Christopher.

"Christopher. Christopher, mmm, yes, I could get used to it. With practise. Which I intend to get."

Sam took a sip of tea.

"Chris."

She shook her head.

"No, that doesn't suit him at all. He wouldn't like that, I'm sure."

Another sip of tea.

"Far too flippant and cheeky. Suit someone more like Andrew."

Sam grinned to herself.

"Lordy. That's another thing. Andrew would be my _stepson."_

Sam laughed aloud.

"I'd be his _stepmother!"_

The radio was playing softly in the background, a beautiful piano concerto, one of Foyle's personal favourites. The dining table was littered with the paraphernalia required for the construction of the fly he was making at the moment. He was working on a variation of the famous Woolly Bugger, a simple fly, usually made in earth tones to represent a leech or larva, but he was building a more vividly coloured version to tempt some of the more recalcitrant fish out from hiding.

After securing the streamer hook in the clamp and choosing what colour thread he was going to go with this time around, Foyle took a drink from the tumbler of whiskey he had poured earlier. Alcohol was still an expensive luxury even when it could be found, but he had treated himself to a bottle to celebrate his resignation.

After having savoured the fine malt, Foyle leaned back in his chair and sighed. To all intents and purposes, his life was going along quite well. The War was becoming a memory, his son was alive and well, and he had managed to leave the police force at long last. He had the time, the inclination and enough money to indulge himself for a while, until he was ready to move on. At fifty four he was too young for his resignation to be permanent, but he had no desire to return to police work. By all accounts, he should be happy.

But he wasn't.

After the third attempt to tie the fly failed, Foyle dropped the fine pliers in disgust. His mind was simply not on the task. He stood up, crossed to the radio and turned it off in the middle of Chopin. Sacrilegious he knew, but he didn't care today. He needed something to work off his irritable mood. He knew all too well exactly why he was feeling out of sorts. It was spring, and it wasn't just a young man's fancy that lightly turned to thoughts of love.

Foyle frowned, mildly diverted; he was sure that was Tennyson, but he couldn't for a moment think which one. Poems were more Rosalind's sort of thing.

For the want of a distraction, he went over to the bookcase and scanned the titles, looking for his wife's favourite poetry book. Dark green cover, if he remembered correctly.

"There you are. Green, thought so."

He flicked through the book, dipping in and out of the pages casually, for several minutes.

"Ah, yes. Locksley Hall. Of course. Never did like that one."

Foyle scanned down the poem, more out of a casual desire to confirm his suspicions about the quote than for anything else, but another line leapt out at him before he found it.

_'For I dipt into the future, _

_far as human eye could see;_

_Saw the vision of the world, _

_and all the wonder that would be..._

The hair on the back of Foyle's neck stood on end.

All hope of moving on from Lily suddenly seemed too large a task. So much reminded him of her, even a poetry book once cherished by his wife. He moved back to the table and picked up his whiskey, downing the last of it in one mouthful. He welcomed the smooth distracting warmth as it slid down his throat. When he turned back, Rosalind's photograph was the first thing he saw.

Foyle closed his eyes, the pain etched deep in the lines of his face.

Rosalind's loss had hit him the hardest; not only did he need to grieve, but he had to raise their grieving son alone too. Elizabeth, in retrospect, was a typical first love; burned brightly, but burned out quickly when he realised how easily she allowed herself to be guided by her parents and her prospects – or lack thereof - as a lowly policeman's wife. He would have married Caroline as soon as she could have divorced, but he had bowed to her wishes at the time, difficult as it had been for both of them. Then finally, after all this time, he had met someone who had tempted him to risk his heart again, and she too, had vanished. Literally.

As if to confuse him further, his newly awakened heart was making him see possibilities where previously he thought there were none.

_She can't breathe without you._

Leaving everything as it was, he grabbed his coat and hat from the hall stand and left the house. He needed some fresh air.

The Present.

Another week, another check up. New heart is fine, blah blah.

I'm physically fine, but mentally, not so much. After the obvious clue last week that Mike is at least aroused by me (oh my Gawd, I hope he wasn't turned on by the idea that I'd nearly died), I'm wondering why he's backed off completely. He was even allowing that tart from the Beta team to fawn all over him at work the other day, and I know he doesn't like it, because he's said so in the past. He knows that she's trying to get him to defect to the other team; they know he's the best engineer – who can blame them?

But he's never even given her the time of day before.

"Lily?"

I turned back to the Consultant and realised that he'd asked me a question. I'm blank. No clue.

"Sorry?"

"I asked how you've been feeling lately. Physically, you're back to normal, but how are you coping emotionally? Being shot, being dead, to all intents and purposes, will take its toll."

_Different. I feel different, but it's not the new heart, I felt different before I'd been shot._

"I've seen the counsellors; they've passed me fit for duty. I'm doing okay."

Something in my tone obviously didn't sit well with him.

"But...?"

"Nothing...Just tired, I guess. Being back at work. Busy."

The consultant made an addition to my notes.

"Tiredness is not unexpected under the circumstances. Pace yourself, listen to your body. Have a few early nights."

_Yeah, right._

"Okay. You're the boss."

Shanarin looked up as I stood up.

"I'll see you in a month."

_Whoopee. Not._

"Okay, and thanks."

I went back to work after I'd had something to eat. The day was as routine as any day until just before knocking off time. The Beta team were trickling in and our team started the handoff. It was all going well until Randy Mandy zoned in on Mike.

_Oh no you don't; mitts off madam._

"Lily? Are you okay?"

I looked at Zak, very briefly, but my gaze was drawn quickly back to _my_ engineer. I probably sounded distracted. I certainly felt it.

"Why? What's up?"

Zak, the sweetheart, was looking puzzled.

"You don't normally call me 'madam', for a start."

_Oh shuzbutt, tell me I'm not muttering out loud now._

I turned my back on the Mike and Randy show.

"Madam? Gah, ignore me. I've just spied Mandy trying to get her claws in Mike. When will she get the message? He's staying with us."

Zak peered past me and smirked.

"She's sure being persuasive. I don't think I could stand up to that kind of torture."

Zak's amusement made me half turn to see what was going on. It was not pretty.

Mandy was wrapped around Mike's arm. Much closer and she'd be classed as underwear.

_Should she be wearing so much lippy at work? Shouldn't that unruly hair be tied up out of the way? Does her dress have to be so tight? And short? _

_At least Mike will put her in her place and walk away._

_Anytime now. _

_Aaaany moment now. _

_Soon._

_Soonish. _

_Just going to brush her off and walk away._

Mike laughed at something The Tart said.

_Grrr._

I turned and walked out. I was so mad that I was nearly half way home before I realised I'd not finished my handover.

I'll apologise to Zak tomorrow, I'm sure he'll cover for me. I'll owe him one.

_How dare Mike behave like that?_

I slammed my front door, seething with righteous indignation.

_How dare Randy Mandy fawn all over him like that, touching him, laughing with him! _

My bag thumped onto the table.

_Bloody pouting mouth and fake fingernails. _

I kicked my shoes off. My feet were happier than I was. Did I mention that I'd been experimenting with higher heels?

_Overdressed, self-obsessed, facile, insincere..._

I was running out of adjectives because I couldn't see past the red haze. That got me even more angry.

But it wasn't until I walked into my kitchen and saw the grapes that I realised why I was so mad.

Was this _jealousy?_

_Oh, sod the dog. _

_I'm in love with Mike_.

I wailed aloud.

"No, I can't _possibly_ be in love with Mike!"

But, of course, denial ain't just a river in Africa.

All these years we have worked together, all this time that I've been aware that Mike wanted me and I kept him at arms length, all the time we spent together while I was convalescing, all the time we were together but apart, close but not intimate, I realise now that, despite my neglect of him, I always trusted that he would _be_ there for me.

Until now.

I've been so selfish and blind.

And confused.

When Mike visited me in hospital and I thought he was Chris, I felt sorry for him. Just sorrow, and maybe a bit of pity, because he loved me and I didn't feel the same way about him. I realise now that I hurt him more than I was capable of understanding. The connection I had with Chris was something I'd never experienced before and once I'd left him behind, in the past, I felt lost without it.

In a sudden flash of insight I understood a small measure of how Mike must be feeling...must have felt...when he wanted me and I didn't want him.

Without conscious thought I went and changed into comfy clothes and then made myself a pot of tea, going through the calm, familiar procedures while my brain took a brief break to regroup a few braincells. When I finally was seated on the sofa, mug in hand, I came back to myself.

There comes a point in most lives when you come to realise who matters to you. These moments of retrospection or insight usually happen after some sort of trauma, so I'm guessing I qualify. I haven't a huge circle of friends, just a reasonable selection of serious acquaintances really. A lot of them never impacted in my life; if they'd moved away I wouldn't be unduly concerned about maintaining contact.

But in that same reflection, I realise that there are those who will always mean something to me. My family, obviously, my parents, grandparents,my Grammas and Gramps, my sibs; all very important to me. How would Mike fit into that picture? Well, Grammas seemed to think he'd do okay. Better than okay. A keeper, she'd said. Thinking about it seriously for the first time, the Mike I have come to know would fit very well into my family.

But Mike appears to have moved on; he didn't follow up his chance last week when I don't think I'd have turned him down and now he's _laughing_ with Randy Mandy.

I sipped my tea, feeling morose.

Anything neglected for long enough dies eventually – even love.

Just as I was in danger of slipping into the maudlin, my doorbell went. I mentally tutted - it meant getting up from the sofa where I'd bedded in with my reading blanket (you know, the one you have for reading late into the night when you get so cold after sitting still for ages?).

I'd loved to have seen my expression when I opened the door and found Mike standing there. Where was Randy Mandy?

June 1947

Foyle had been out fishing and had been quite successful, which is why this fine and warm afternoon found him walking to Sam's lodgings. He was on his way to share his largesse with her, as he had done on more than one occasion recently. She didn't need to know that he caught more than he needed just so that he had a reason to drop round and an excuse to feed her.

Having knocked and waited several moments, a disappointed Foyle had been on the verge of leaving when the door had suddenly opened.

"Good afternoon, Sam."

"Oh, it's _you_."

Foyle had doffed his hat with automatic courtesy, which gave him a few seconds to work out the dichotomy between Sam's greeting, which had contained a distinct note of relief, if he wasn't mistaken, and her appearance, which was somewhere between dishevelled and distressed.

Foyle cut politely to the point, his original errand forgotten.

"Is everything all right?"

He could see her doing her best to summon up her stiff upper lip spirit, but her lower lip gave the game away completely when it wobbled perilously.

Sam glanced behind her and pulled the door closer.

"To be honest, no, everything is not all right."

He hadn't missed the gesture and his insides gripped with concern. Was there an intruder? Was she being held against her will?

"How may I help?"

Foyle did not hesitate; he did not even given a moment's thought to letting Sam cope alone. Her expression seemed torn between two extremes; delight and misery, but with an odd measure of guilt thrown in the mix. What on Earth was going on?

"You'd better come in, if you have a few moments?"

"Of course."

Sam had stepped back to let him in to the house. Foyle felt himself relax to a wary caution now that he had been invited in; he didn't want to leave her alone in her difficulties, whatever they were.

As soon as the front door closed behind him, Foyle turned to enquire as to Sam's distress, but she beat him to it.

"My father is in the garden. Actually, we both were, which is why I nearly didn't hear your knock."

"Ah."

Foyle understood her behaviour now. There was no intruder, just the Reverend Stewart, but that in itself might not be the best news.

Sam half-smiled and gave a single nod.

"Yes, exactly. He has come to persuade me that I'll be better off back at the Vicarage, especially as I don't have a proper job yet. Uncle Aubrey did his best, but Father – well, he's here."

Foyle noted the guilty undertone again and wondered what was making her feel like that. With a sinking heart he remembered seeing that look before – when Sam had been stepping out with Andrew behind his back.

Demonstrating an insouciance he didn't feel, Foyle lifted an enquiring brow.

"Sam, what is going on?"

With another nervous glance towards the back of the house, Sam lowered her voice and spoke quickly.

"Well, my father wanted to take me back with him today, and I sort of panicked, and told him that I couldn't come home because I was needed here, in Hastings."

With a sinking feeling that usually heralded trouble, Foyle could tell that there was more.

"Go on."

There was a spot of hand wringing now.

"The thing is, I...um...might have given him the impression that I've been working for quite a while in another job..."

"Another job...?"

Another nod and a glance back.

"Yes, as your housekeeper."

Both of Foyle's eyebrows shot up this time, but before Sam could say anything else, her father's voice was heard in the kitchen.

"Samantha dear, who was at the door?"

Sam quickly moved from guilt to anxiety; she laid her hand on Foyle's forearm urgently, and her voice dropped to a hiss.

"_There's something else -"_

She cut off abruptly as her father entered the room, leaving Foyle wondering just how much worse it could get.

"Samantha?"

Foyle very briefly glanced to her for guidance, but there was no clear indication of what was expected of him.

The Reverend Stewart's eyes lighted on Foyle.

"Mr Foyle, we meet again at last, though I wish it were under better circumstances."

Foyle had expected Sam's father to step forward to shake hands with him and had stepped a pace to greet him before he realised that the Vicar had not moved any closer.

"Good to see you again, Sir." He turned slightly towards Sam, whose complexion by now had changed from an unnatural paleness to a deep blush of pink...

"Ermm, better circumstances?"

He looked again to Sam for enlightenment, but it was the Vicar who answered.

"If I'd known that you had asked Samantha to be your housekeeper, I confess I would have thought it an unwise move and naturally indicated my concern to her."

Foyle's eyes flicked from the father to the daughter with deceptive laziness.

"Naturally."

Sam could hear the hint of dryness in the response, even if her father couldn't.

"Oh, I don't blame her entirely, the young learn by making mistakes, but we don't have to compound them, do we?"

Foyle was not keen on the direction this conversation appeared to be taking. What, exactly, had Sam said to her father?

"N..no, we don't."

But the Reverend wasn't finished.

"Dear me, what on Earth were you thinking? A young woman's head can be so easily turned. An experienced man such as yourself and you couldn't see that this might happen?"

Baffled, Foyle turned back to the older man.

"I'm sorry, I'm not exactly sure what - "

Sam finally seemed to have regained her voice. Her hand – which had remained on Foyle's arm all along - squeezed him with controlled urgency.

"I'm sorry, darling, you know what I'm like, I couldn't help myself, I told Father, even though I knew that you wanted to speak to him first. I was simply just so excited."

_Darling?_

Time seemed to stand still for Foyle.

"You told your father...?"

"About our engagement, yes."

TBC.


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: Foyle's war is a copyright product, not owned by me or mine. Characters used for fan-fic purposes only, no infringement intended.

Author: hazeleyes57

Title: What Will Be, chapter 15

Rating: T or 12, nothing terrible.

A/N: Has Sam been impulsive – or is she a shrewd gambler?

What Will Be - Chapter 15

The Present.

"May I come in?"

I'm not sure how long I would have remained standing at the door staring at Mike if he hadn't asked to come inside, but his swift – and probably unconscious - perusal reminded me that I was not dressed for visitors.

"Umm, sure, I guess. Come in."

I stepped back after this lacklustre invitation and waited. Mike picked up on the atmosphere, I'm sure, but he stepped past me anyway. I managed not to lean out and check the hall to see if Mandy was loitering anywhere. I didn't want to know. Honest.

Mike looked around the room as if uncertain about his place in it; I was torn between dismay and pleasure that he was here. Am I miserably happy or happily miserable? The former, I think.

Just before the silence got embarrassing as well as awkward, I remembered my manners.

"Would you like something to drink? I was just having tea."

The unspoken _'and you interrupted me' _hung in the air.

"Tea's fine."

He dropped on to the sofa, moving my reading blanket as he did so. Feeling like a sulky teenager, I gritted my teeth and went to fetch another mug.

Usually I dislike conversational silences, but today I was willing to try one. I was sure Mike would get around to telling me why he's here soon enough.

I handed him his tea and, after only a moment's hesitation, seated myself back in my 'nest' at the other end of the sofa. I say 'other end' as if the sofa were huge, but there was only a small gap between us.

Mike put his too hot tea on the table, then leaned back and put his left arm along the back of the sofa. It brought his hand close to the back of my head.

"You left work early."

I gave a noncommittal grunt.

_I'm surprised you noticed._

"Zak finished the handover for me. I had somewhere to be."

Mike's glance at my clothes and the blanket, followed by a raised eyebrow, made a liar out of me, but that simple lift of a brow was breaking my heart.

It made me ungracious.

"What do you want?"

"I wondered how you got on at your check-up today."

Typical. It was my check-up, but now I feel a rat for not including him. This was the first one I had gone to without him taking me.

"Fine."

Mike laughed without humour.

"That sounds scarily like the use of the word 'fine' in a sentence that begins with 'Nothing's wrong, I'm _fine'_, that any man believes to be true at the risk of his manhood."

He had hit the nail right on the head and I only just managed to prevent a reluctant grin at being so perfectly sussed out. Damn him. I reminded myself to be mad at him with a mental picture of him being pawed on by Randy Mandy.

It worked.

"You were busy; the Boss -"

Mike interrupted smoothly.

"Has been very good about letting me come with you. There was no retrieval scheduled, I was free for at least an hour."

I sipped my tea to give me time to think.

Mike's withdrawal the other day and his 'scene' with Mandy today made me wonder where I fitted into his life. Was he just being a really good friend, or was there something more for us? I'd lost my perspective now that I knew how I really felt about him. I can admit to myself that it was me that was trying to distance the two of us.

"What about Mandy?"

Mike frowned; not being a mind-reader, he hadn't followed the loop I'd taken.

"Mandy? What's -?"

He bit off what he had been about to say, to my annoyance, and his expression changed. For a fleeting moment I thought he'd looked speculative, but I must have misread him. In my defence I was distracted by the fact that he had shifted to face me on the sofa; his left hand propped up his head and his left leg moved so that his knee rested between us. It was difficult to drag my gaze away from the now tight crotch of his trousers. Even more scandalous, I think he was doing it deliberately.

"Mandy is quite misunderstood. She hides a shy personality under the brash exterior; I'm sure if she relaxed she'd have the pick of the men. She's warm and big-hearted; makes a man feel very welcome."

_Oh, I bet she does. Like a piranha at a picnic._

I was seething, and trying to hide it. I clutched my mug up to my mouth, taking a gulp of tea to demonstrate my lack of concern about Mike's sex life. My new heart was getting a workout and thumped rapidly, causing an unpleasant fluttery feeling in my chest. I took a deep breath and tried for calm.

"That's nice. I'm really pleased for you."

"Bullshit."

My mouth dropped open.

_What?_

Mike stood up. All humorous pretence dropped away from him; he looked serious and determined. I was shocked by the change, but also kinda impressed.

"Forget Mandy. Forget her sticky fingers, it was all nothing. She doesn't want me, she just wants my skill set. Now, get dressed in something you'd like to be seen out in, we've got a trip to make."

Curiosity got the better of me.

"Why? And where?"

Mike smiled at me.

"Why? Because I'm tired of waiting for you to figure it out. Where? Well, you'll just have to come with me to find out, won't you?"

It's amazing how quickly you can get dressed with the right motivation.

June 1947

Foyle's heart leapt into his throat and his ears buzzed. Only Sam's hand on his arm lent any semblance of reality to the situation.

Both his heartbeat and the flow of time resumed; he could breathe again. He cleared his throat, and managed to place his hand over Sam's.

"Our engagement. Of course. That was precipitous of you, S...er, _darling_, you really should have let me speak to your father first."

Sam's joyful relief washed over him, and her smile was contagious. He felt his lips twitch in response despite the situation.

"Yes, I know. I'll try to do better in future." She was quite unabashed now that she had got her own way. "Shall I take them?"

Foyle had completely forgotten the fish, fresh from the river, still held in his left hand. He passed them to her.

"Please do, thank you."

Suddenly chipper, as only a narrow escape can make you, Sam looked at her newly designated fiancé with a smile.

"I'll make some fresh tea." She looked at the fish, "Ooh, what a marvellous catch, these are beauties."

Foyle was still in a lingering state of shock and, quite frankly, couldn't even remember how many fish he had caught, let alone whether they were beauties or not, but he managed a nod.

"Erm, yes, yes, they are."

Sam looked to her father.

"You'll stay for supper, won't you?

Foyle was acutely aware that he wanted to rub his forehead – hard – as he was wont to do in times of stress. He managed to keep his hands by his sides.

_Oh dear Lord. _

Was she deliberately prolonging this situation?

He dare not look at Sam's father until he had regained control over his own wayward emotions. Heaven knows what the other man was thinking.

"Thank you, Samantha, that would be very nice..." Reverend Stewart sighed with real regret; the fish did look rather splendid. "...but I do have to be at the station for the six o'clock train, or I shall miss the connecting bus at Littlehampton."

Reverend Stewart's tone was gently chiding, as only a parent can make it.

Sam looked apologetic, but Foyle was suddenly suspicious of her sincerity.

"Oh, bad luck, Father. Another time, perhaps?"

"That would be lovely, my dear."

Foyle, unbeknownst, now found himself experiencing the same sense of relief that Sam had been privy to moments earlier, but, unfortunately, his relaxation was premature.

"Might I have a word with you, Mr Foyle? Perhaps out in the garden?"

"Umm."

Foyle patted his pockets, almost nervously, and looked like a man who had picked the wrong day to give up smoking. Unable to avoid it any longer, he looked across to Sam's father, a man only ten years older than himself.

"Of course; and, er, um, please, call me Christopher."

Reverend Stewart nodded once, but did not offer Foyle the same courtesy. Both men headed out into the garden via the kitchen, where Sam was cleaning the fish. Although Foyle was unaware of it, her concerned gaze followed him out.

Despite Sam's worries about the imminent conversation in the garden, she could barely contain her excitement.

_Christopher had not given her away as a liar to her father. _

Sam wasn't certain what would happen after her father left, but she hadn't entirely thought through all of her master plan yet.

Seeing him standing at her door, with the fish that she was almost certain were an excuse to come and see her, she had been sorry that her father was here, as she would have preferred to ask Christopher in to join her for supper. However, when she had pulled the door close behind her, knowing that the back door was also open and would make the inner door bang shut, the concern that had leapt into dear Christopher's expression had made her realise that he was genuinely worried that she was in some difficulty. He had always been quite mindful of her welfare, but where there was _mindful_, where there was _concern_, there could be _worry; _relief from worry led to _affection_ and then, having previously seen _that_ look across the kitchen table, where there was _interest_, most hopefully, there would also be _love. _All this had occurred to her in an instant; all she needed to do now was to capitalise on the situation. She _had_ told her father that she was working for Mr Foyle as his housekeeper, simply to enable her to remain in Hastings; the engagement had been a spur-of-the-moment outrageousness that had sprung from a single thought – _what would Lily do in my shoes?_

Lily would give Christopher a push in the right direction, which is what she had done. Hopefully, he wouldn't run in the opposite direction. Men could be so unpredictable if left to their own devices. What they needed, whether they were aware of it or not, was the right woman behind them. Or beside them, she amended.

Or, indeed, her traitorous thoughts suggested, _underneath_ them.

Sam blushed.

"Yes, well..." She cleared her throat and pushed an errant piece of hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist.

"Phew, is it hot in here, or is it just me?"

If Sam was hot under the collar it was only fair, as Foyle was feeling the same way.

_Typical of Sam, obviously hasn't thought this through. Now I have to face a man that I respect with less than the truth, which is not something I will enjoy._

Iain Stewart seemed content to wander up the garden, absently dead-heading a few flowers as he went. Foyle followed, waiting for the 'word' to begin. He felt like oddly like he had when facing Rosalind's father with the formal request for his daughter's hand, even though this time the situation wasn't real.

Finally the Reverend came to a halt. He appeared to be inspecting Sam's vegetable bed, but his attention obviously wasn't entirely focused there.

"When Samantha was born, I knew the day would come when a suitor would come to ask for her hand in marriage."

Foyle nodded, aware that no answer was expected of him yet.

"I promised myself, and my wife, that I would not rend him limb from limb for his audacity. It would not be his fault, for how could anyone not love such a wondrous creation, gifted to us within God's love?"

Foyle allowed a small smile to touch his lips. He had no daughter, but he could entirely sympathise with Sam's father's viewpoint. He would not be happy if his daughter's husband were nearly thirty years older than she was. He fully expected Iain Stewart to tell him that there was no chance on this earth that he would give his consent to an engagement. At least this way Sam would not have lost face after her reckless announcement. Bad luck, old chum, but no, you will not be marrying my daughter.

Foyle was unsettled to realise that he felt disappointed that his all-too-brief fake engagement was over. He made himself focus on Reverend Stewart again.

"I am tired of hearing the excuse that the War has changed everything, and that the new thinking will carry us forward into an era of change and call it progress."

"Understandable."

"I'm all for progress, but not any expense. Many of the old ways and values are still important."

"They are."

Iain Stewart turned and pinned Foyle with a firm eye.

"May I be frank?"

"Please do."

The Reverend pursed his lips and Foyle had no trouble imagining him in his pulpit, gently castigating his flock.

"When I imagined handing Samantha into the care of her husband, uppermost in my mind was the thought that he would care for her long after we had gone."

Foyle looked at the grass at his feet.

"Well, admirable sentiments, I can't argue with that."

_Nor can I do anything about it. But neither could I prevent Rosalind from dying so young. There are no guarantees._

"Leaving that aside, there are many qualities you possess that I would seek to find in the man entrusted with the care of my daughter's happiness. You are steadfast, even in the face of adversity, honourable, intelligent, compassionate, kind..."

Foyle didn't feel too honourable right now, but he was puzzled as to where this was going. It was the oddest 'no' he had ever come across.

_Why doesn't he mention 'love' in this equation? Sam deserves to love and be loved._

Reverend Stewart didn't seem to expect a response.

"...that said, I have to say that it goes against my instincts to give my blessing to a match between you and Samantha."

Foyle pursed his lips.

_Ah. That's it then, I'm off the hook._

He frowned.

_Funny, I thought I'd be more relieved._

"Right."

He turned back towards the house, unwilling to let Sam's father see his expression. He was annoyed at Stewart's high handed take on Sam's wishes; he hadn't even mentioned Sam's happiness, he had just said 'no'.

"I can't say I'm surprised, or that I'm not disappointed, but I do understand your position."

Foyle could see Sam standing at the window by the kitchen sink, probably still cleaning the fish. He sighed, unaware that he had done so, before turning back to the older man.

"However, with respect, I think anyone who cared about Sam's happiness would put her wishes first, not their own. I grant you that I consider myself too old for Sam, but she doesn't seem to see it that way. She is young, but she has lived through difficult times that have given her a maturity beyond her years. She knows her own mind, and although she tends to be impulsive, it is always with the best of intentions."

He regarded the silent Vicar with a polite calm he didn't feel.

"I'll inform Sam of your decision, naturally, but I will abide by _her_ decision. If she still wishes to marry, then so be it, with or without your blessing."

The little voice in Foyle's head was asking him what the hell he was doing. He was nicely off the hook and now he was trying to hang himself back up.

He turned back towards the house again, but he'd only taken a few steps before Reverend Stewart's voice halted him.

"Mr Foyle – Christopher, please wait a moment."

Foyle halted.

Stewart moved to his side, and Foyle was surprised by the warmth he could see in the other man's expression.

"Forgive me for not making myself clearer a moment ago. While it does go against my instincts to give you and my daughter my blessing, we were not put on Earth to live by instinct alone. The good Lord gave us free will, and the ability to reason. I may not completely agree with my daughter's choice of husband, but I have no desire to prevent her making that choice if she is sure that it is the right one."

Foyle couldn't contain his surprise. Both eyebrows lifted.

Reverend Stewart smiled.

"While I sincerely hope some of your sense rubs off on Samantha, I'm surprised to see that some of her rebelliousness has rubbed off on you."

Foyle's lips twitched.

"Umm."

Reverend Stewart moved back up the garden towards the house and Foyle turned to accompany him.

"But it is reassuring to know that you love her, too."

Foyle stopped dead in his tracks.

_What the hell had Sam said to her father?_

TBC


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: Foyle's War is a copyright product. Characters from the TV series used without permission, but not for profit. No infringement is intended.

Author: hazeleyes57

Rating: Adult, mature themes, some swearing. M in USA etc.

A/N: This was meant to be the last chapter, but I feel like I'm trying to get the last few words in before the bell at the end of the exam, so with your kind indulgence I'm splitting a chapter again.

Love is all, divine and heart-warming. The path _to_ love, however, has not always been straightforward. Enjoy.

What Will Be Chapter 16

The Present.

No matter where I have travelled, I have always been drawn back to the south of England. There is intrinsic beauty in every continent that I have visited, but the combination of flora, fauna and the temperature of a late Spring in England is simply perfect, even in my remote corner.

The Temporal Facilities are located on the south coast of England, in Dungeness, near New Romney. There used to be a nuclear power plant here, many years ago; the land is stable and it's sufficiently remote to lull people into a false sense of security about what we were doing with all that power.

I've always felt attracted to this area for some reason, although now knowing about Chris..._Foyle_ and Sam just a few miles along the coast, it makes more sense, I suppose.

It didn't take long to figure out that we were heading into Hastings. Mike didn't seem disposed to talk and I was content to be silent, though I was thinking rapidly. I wondered if he had figured out that I had bent one or two rules a bit out of shape while I'd been away. Leaving the money behind had been a bit naughty, but I'd already paid it back from my salary since my return; the Boss just assumed that I'd left it behind when I was injured and I wasn't going to disabuse him of that idea. Had Mike figured out what I'd done with it? I hope not; I was laying low about that for a while.

Maybe he knew about the letters I'd left for Sam and Chris.

No.

He would have said something.

A few minutes later Mike pulled into the car park and we both got out (yes, we still have cars, and no, they don't fly; do you have any idea how chaotic it would be with the standard of your average driver? Yeeuch!). The sea air was bracing, salty and familiar. The raucous cawing of the seagulls was making me feel quite emotional; this was the same beach front that had held the large guns used during _that _air raid and suddenly I was remembering that first kiss. I turned away from the sea and the memory, only to see Mike looking at me. It was an oddly expectant look, almost as if he was waiting for something. Or someone.

The seafront has changed remarkably little. The Victoria is still there and you can still visit the caves under the castle ruins, near the location of the Bofors gun during the war. Several years ago the town was declared a location of historical interest; it was completely pedestrianised and the local planning authority made sure almost nothing got changed or built without shedloads of rules having to be obeyed. It was worth it.

Mike took a path that was very familiar. The bakery was no longer a bakery, but a little teashop with tables outside. The Old Town Parish church was still there; we walked past its restored neatness and turned right at the top of Swan Terrace into Steep Lane. My heart was beginning to beat faster and I don't think it was just the incline.

There was a sense of timelessness about the place. If anything the lane looked newer than I remembered, but that was probably due to the lack of the shabbiness of the war years; no-one back then had the resources to paint the houses, let alone the willingness to spend hard earned cash prettifying a building that could be flattened at any moment.

As I knew he would, Mike stopped at the house on the corner. He looked at me with that odd expression again. I know he used to have feelings for me, just as I know he still seems to desire me, but why bring me here? What does he want from me?

Did he want me to tell him again that I wasn't in love with Chris?

Was that even true? I had very strong feelings for Chris; I could even admit to myself that I loved him _back then_, but I knew he was destined for Sam, and I couldn't afford to fall in love with him.

Even if I had.

But now I love Mike. I know I do, but I don't understand it; am I so fickle that I could so quickly change from one man to another, as if they were shoes?

_Fer cryin' out loud, I haven't even kissed the guy!_

Perhaps today I'll figure it out, but I simply don't know what Mike hopes to discover here.

I looked up at the house. Its still-beautiful curved façade was an eye-aching, pristine white. Even with the dull, chill weather, it reflected light everywhere.

"Most of the windows are shuttered. Is it empty?"

Hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, Mike shrugged.

"In a way."

"What do you mean?"

_Like I didn't know..._

"It's not occupied at the moment."

I sighed. Did I have to drag every word out of him?

"What does that mean?"

Mike was looking at me. His brow was creased in thought. Contemplative, not quite a frown, but achingly familiar.

"It's owned by the Lerion Trust. They bought the house the first time it came up for sale; they outbid every competitor."

I made myself look impartially impressed. _Look how innocent I am, I know nothing..._

"The Trustees are a secretive lot. Won't give out any information other than the fact that they are charged with looking after the property until the owner decides to live there."

I looked over the building, avoiding Mike's gaze.

"When will that be, do you think?"

"Can't say; whenever he or she decides to, I guess."

"What happens until then?"

"Apparently they occasionally rent the house out to strictly vetted clients."

"Oh."

Mike seemed to be waiting for more. I obliged.

"Why are we here?"

For a long moment I wasn't sure that he would answer.

"It's Foyle's house."

_Duh._

"And we shouldn't be here, I know that, so _why_ are we here, exactly?"

Mike looked frustrated and disappointed. I had the distinct impression that he wasn't sure why we were here either.

"I thought you'd know, once we got here."

I wanted to scream.

I took a deep calming breath.

"Okay, you've had your fun, my 'big surprise' is so surprising that I don't know what it is yet, so I'm going back to the car. I'll see you there, hopefully before it gets dark."

I turned my back on Sam and Christopher's home and started to walk back down the lane.

"Wait!"

I stopped, I waited. I looked back.

"Marry me."

Well, I can honestly say that _that _was not what I thought he'd say.

I walked back up to him.

"Why?"

Mike grinned reluctantly.

"Anyone else would have said 'yes' or 'no', but not you."

June 1947

Iain Stewart, prospective father-in-law, had left. A meal of fresh fish, garden vegetables and boiled potatoes had been consumed by Sam, and mostly untasted, by Foyle.

When he had returned from his 'chat' with the Reverend Stewart, he had no chance to speak to Sam in front of her father. Aware that he would try to talk to her after her father left, Sam bustled about, fussing with plates and napkins and cutlery, and by then the meal was ready and it would spoil if they talked before eating.

But he would not be put off forever, and when Sam finally laid down her knife and fork, Foyle shifted in his seat. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sam beat him to it.

"I know, I know. I shouldn't have told my father I was working for you without checking it with you beforehand. I am very sorry."

Foyle looked as surprised as he felt.

"Y'know, I rather feel that you have missed the point, Sam; I think your father may well have thought that working as my housekeeper would have been the lesser of two evils."

He regarded her subdued expression with fond exasperation.

"What _were_ you thinking?"

Sam inhaled; finally the chance to explain.

But in that split second her courage, usually so indomitable, wavered. Could he love her? _Did_ he love her? Should she cast all before him and take a chance? Or would he see her as some silly goose with a childish crush?

The expression that she had seen on his face in that unguarded moment back in April – was it only two months ago? - gave her a measure of confidence, but desiring someone wasn't the same as wanting to be with them forever.

Sam looked at Foyle, trying to decide whether the gamble was worth the possible loss of his friendship, and worse, his respect.

Foyle could see the turmoil that her internal debate was causing. Having set up the 'engagement' to get herself out of a jam, was she now trying to let him down gently, or was there something else she was trying to tell him?

Something she had said to her father must have convinced him that her – their – engagement was genuine. Reverend Stewart dealt with a large parish, surely he must be capable of knowing when he was being lied to? Foyle felt the smallest ember of hope stir in his heart.

"Do you trust me?"

Sam looked surprised that he would even need to ask.

"Of course; absolutely. With my life."

Foyle looked as if the answer was no less than he had expected.

"Then trust me now."

Foyle could see that he had been understood, but he could also see that she needed a helping hand. Her colour came and went in waves.

A sudden disquieting thought popped into his head.

_Was she in trouble?_

As quick as the thought existed, Foyle dismissed it as irrelevant; it didn't matter one iota.

"Nothing you tell me will upset our friendship, or alter the respect that I have for you. No matter how bad it is, whatever's happened, I will help you as best as I can."

He let the comment hang in the air for a few moments so that it could be absorbed.

"Why did you need to tell your father that you are engaged? Are you in...umm...trouble?"

To his surprise, Sam looked quite startled. And then she actually blushed. Foyle found it quite charming.

"Goodness! No, no, I'm not...I haven't...I've never...no! No, absolutely not."

Sam felt her blush all the way down to her toes. She held her hands to her flaming cheeks. Any thought she had about being worldly wise and sophisticated flew out of the window. Suddenly the few chaste kisses that she had experienced – one actually in front of the man now seated at her kitchen table – seemed woefully inadequate in lending her any degree of poise after the delicately phrased enquiry.

_'No chance of becoming PWP_ still held true.

Foyle's expression was perplexed, his forehead creased in thought.

"Then why...?"

Sam stood suddenly; the action of someone who must move at all costs because they can't remain still. She reached for Foyle's plate, intent on clearing away, but he was the quicker of the two; he instinctively took hold of her wrist to prevent her flight.

They both froze, equally startled at the contact. It wasn't the first time they had touched, but it was the first time it was not for assistance or in common courtesy.

Foyle recovered first; the powerful jolt of awareness that he had felt when he touched Sam was startlingly familiar. He deliberately made his voice calm, though inside he was anything but.

"I _need_ to know."

The plate dropped unheeded from Sam's nerveless fingers and landed with a muted thud on the table.

The velvet toned statement of his _need _conjured up feelings that she couldn't ignore, but the tingling warmth spreading from the simple touch of his fingers on her wrist sealed Sam's fate for her. How could she possibly let _this_ pass her by just because she was afraid to lose his respect if he didn't feel the same way about her? She would then always wonder what might have been.

Foyle's heart almost stopped when Sam sighed heavily; her posture shifted as if bending under the weight of her thoughts.

Her dark eyes had been focused on the fingers wrapped around her wrist, but now Sam's troubled - though oddly resolute - gaze lifted to meet Foyle's.

"You too will always have my respect and friendship, whatever the future holds..."

For perhaps the first time in his adult life Foyle could not predict what was going to happen next, but whatever it was, he was quite certain that it would affect him for the rest of his days.

Sam's flushed cheeks had lost all colour and her freckles stood out starkly against the alabaster skin.

"...but...what if I wanted...more?"

The Present

We stood facing each other, only a couple of feet apart. People walked past us, some uphill, some down, but the world kept turning.

It would be so easy to say 'yes'; I do love him, more each day now that I really know him. He completes me. When I am with him I feel a sort of excited peace; he excites me, turns me on just by looking at me, but underneath there is this peaceful sense of rightness that makes me feel as if he is the part of me that has been missing up until now. It scares me that if I hadn't met Chris, I would never have met the real Mike.

"I'm not 'anyone else', I'm me. Why do you want to marry _me_? We've never even kissed, let alone anything...else."

Mike's lips twitched. I think he sensed that he hadn't been turned down just yet.

"You've slept in my bed. In my arms, I might add."

I huffed.

"Emphasis on the word '_slept' _as in I was _asleep._"

Mike wasn't giving up.

"I saved your life; twice, if we're counting. According to some eastern philosophies your life is now my responsibility. I take my responsibilities seriously."

I'm fairly certain that he's enjoying the game as much as I am. I wonder if he's as turned on, too? I kept a straight face.

"You can continue to be responsible for me at work. You are a fine engineer."

Mike closed the gap between us. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"Yes, I am a _very_ fine engineer. And like any engineer worth his salt, I'm good with my hands _and._.."

Those same good hands, attached to very fine arms, slid around me and hauled me up against him, lighting fires wherever we touched. We were briefly nose to nose until Mike moved his mouth to my ear.

"...my equipment."

Chest to chest and hip to hip as we were, I could tell his equipment was in fine working order. I think I might have moaned. A remote part of me was aware that this felt oddly familiar.

"Well, suppose I don't want to just take your word for it?"

Mike's blue eyes danced, and then he grinned; it was distinctly devilish.

"I was hoping you'd say that. Now, as I like to maintain the illusion that I am a gentleman, I'll give you a choice."

One of his hands had drifted south and now rested on my backside. I felt his legs shift to settle mine closer, making his arousal grind against me. We were both breathing in shallow, rapid breaths and lust was already fuddling my brains.

"Choice?"

"Yep. Your place or mine?"

As we had already shifted up a grade from 'if' to 'when', 'where' seemed quite a logical next step, although I was slightly shocked to realise that we were still standing in the road and not somewhere a little less public.

My inner critic was wailing _but he still hasn't kissed you! _

I told it to shut up.

Mike's breath was hot against my neck.

"Your place is closer."

_More than you know!_

"True."

It seemed to take us far too long to get back to the car and drive back to my place, but I don't suppose it did in reality. I felt absurdly giddy and young when Mike grabbed my hand and hauled me along behind him as though he couldn't wait a minute longer than necessary either.

It took three goes to open my front door; my hands shook and my blood thrummed through my body as we fell into the apartment. I felt utterly _alive. _

For about one second we stood apart, staring at each other. Were we sure about this?

_Hell yes!_

With a determined look on his face Mike hurriedly shrugged out of his jacket and left it where it fell. I dropped my bag and shed my jacket. I still had one sleeve caught when Mike's body thrust me up against the front door.

He's stronger than he looks. I've never thought of myself as a fan of caveman tactics, but Mike's making me rethink a lot of things. One of his knees insinuated itself between mine and the pressure is exactly were I crave it. We're face to face and he's suddenly serious.

"Last chance to say 'no', sweet thing; after this there is no going back. You'll be mine and I'll be yours."

I searched his face for any sign of deceit and saw nothing but a desire that matched mine. He hadn't mentioned love, but he had made a commitment of sorts. My eyes flicked from his eyes to his lips and back again.

"I guess it would depend on whether you're any good at kissing. Crappy kisser and all bets are off."

Mike's grin bordered on feral.

"I guess we'll have to find out then, won't we?"

I was half way through trying to conjure up a snappy retort when his mouth pounced on mine; in the ensuing fireworks I gave up thinking and got completely swept up in the sensations. Inside I was exultant – I'd finally found my home.

Mike caressed and teased my lips and I lost the power of rational thought. I've no idea how much time passed, but when we finally came up for air our lips clung, reluctant to part.

My hands had somehow managed to entangle themselves in Mike's hair while I wasn't paying attention. Naughty hands. Not.

He looked as stunned as I felt, but he still managed to summon up a coherent thought.

"W...well, it certainly works for me."

It might have sounded quite arrogant but for the slight stutter, which made it sweet instead. He was obviously just as affected as I was, though if I had been in any doubt it would have been cleared up by the aroused state of the body plastered against mine.

I smirked.

"Mmm, not too shabby at all. 'Course, I'd need a selection of examples to really judge the qual - "

It should be self evident that it is difficult to finish a sentence when someone else has his tongue in your mouth, but I was past caring whether or not it was considered rude to interrupt. There and then I decided Mike could interrupt me any time he liked if this was his method of choice.

I'll probably commit this to my diary later, if I can gather enough of my scattered wits, but Mike is one helluva kisser. The whole of my body was thrumming with desire, there was no other word for it.

In a romance novel I dare say two pages of beautiful prose would describe how we 'cemented our relationship', but it wouldn't do justice to what was going on here. Unanimous in our decided course of action, we saw no point in delaying and skipped the preliminaries. In between kisses I can only label as 'frantic', we pulled and pushed at each other's clothing, intent only on as much access as was necessary.

While one of Mike's hands slipped under my skirt, I yanked at his belt and succeeded in shoving his jeans past the impressive bulge in his shorts. He jerked when I slipped my hand inside and took hold of my prize.

His voice was hoarse as he muttered into my neck.

"Bed?"

I didn't want to wait another second, let alone the twenty it would take to get to the bed.

"Later; want you _now!"_

The draft of cool air when my sodden underwear went south was quickly replaced by the scorching heat of Mike's body. Without preamble he pulled one of my thighs up, considerately lined himself up and plunged straight into me.

I'll draw a respectful veil over the next few minutes to spare the blushes (mine, that is), but suffice to say that I may have repeatedly called out in appeal to the main Deity, requested that Mike continue what he was already doing in a most satisfactory manner but possibly harder, and answered in the affirmative several times. Or a mixture of the above.

In retrospect I can see why people making love usually end up in bed or on the floor, because, quite frankly, after such an earth shattering orgasm the last thing you need to do is try to remain upright, especially on one leg. If Mike hadn't been pinning me to the door, I would have slid to the floor in a boneless heap with the silliest grin on my face.

I could feel the tremble in Mike's legs too, but his grin matched mine.

We kissed again; it said so many things – hello, welcome, thanks, and my favourite, _I'm here to stay. _

To my surprise, Mike remained hard and kept his place. I knew he'd climaxed too, but he stayed put while we kissed with that post climax delicious laziness.

"Mike...?"

Apparently I didn't need to say anything else.

"I know, but I've wanted to do this for the longest time and I'm in no way finished yet. So hang on, babe, I've got you."

He lifted up my other leg and I wrapped them around his hips. His jeans were still high enough to let him walk and he picked me up. He was gracious enough not to grunt with the effort. Still buried to the hilt, he carried me through to the bedroom.

We didn't get much sleep.

.

.

.

.

.

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: Foyle's War is a copyright product. Characters and excerpts from the episodes are used without permission, but no infringement is intended. Original characters used with my permission.

Author: hazeleyes57

Rating: PG, M, 18, some sexual references and themes.

Title: What Will Be, chapter 17

A/N: Sorry, still a WIP, I can't seem to get the ending to _not _sound like I'm amputating the story.

What Will Be Chapter 17

June 1947 

"...but...what if I wanted...more?"

Foyle hardly dared to breathe lest it blew away the fragile question. Sam wanted more than friendship and respect?

Could he break through his own reticence to seek happiness again?

Desperately hoping that he had not misunderstood, he sought refuge in the facts. Anything to prove that he was not losing his mind or hearing things.

"More...?"

Sam nodded jerkily, unable to add anything else.

Foyle felt her pulse thrumming under his fingers and it drew an answering beat from his heart. Only once had he felt this connection before and he knew if he didn't act he would regret it for the rest of his life.

"Sam..."

He faltered, unable to find the words to ask her. It was too complex, too much _everything_. She was too young, despite what he had told her father. He was too old.

Though it was the last thing he wanted to do, Foyle reluctantly released Sam's wrist.

"You couldn't possibly want..."

Sam nodded once, her eyes never leaving Foyle's. Having burned her bridges, she had nothing to lose. She felt him withdrawing from her; it lent urgency to her tone and gave her the courage to put her hand on his arm to prevent a retreat.

"Yes, I do. I know I do. And please don't think of me as a silly girl. I know how I feel, and it feels _right."_

_It feels right._

The words echoed in Foyle's heart.

"You're not a silly girl, Sam, you are a beautiful young woman in the prime of her life. The last thing you need is to tie yourself to an old man like me."

Sam felt herself relax; at least he hadn't scolded her or told her that she was stupid and sent her packing. Her smile was gentle.

"You're not an old man, simply an older one. Besides, it's up to me to decide how I want to be tied up, and with whom."

Utter surprise rendered Foyle momentarily speechless but he wasn't so diverted by the idea of being tied up that he missed Sam's wistful smile a moment later.

"You really think I'm beautiful?"

Foyle caught the flash of insecurity under the pale complexion of his former driver. He inwardly cursed his own insensitivity. He stood and took one of her hands in his. Her fingers were cold and he warmed them.

"Very beautiful, inside and out."

Sam shifted slightly, and somehow they were standing much closer together, though Foyle wasn't certain how it had been managed. Her free hand rested flat on his chest and he could feel the heat through his shirt.

"Thank you." Her grin turned cheeky. " I think you're lovely, too."

Foyle shook his head, but smiled gently.

Sam lifted the hand holding hers up to her cheek for a moment before bringing it to her lips.

_There, I've done it; very definitely crossed the line. _

She looked into his eyes and thought of everything she wanted to tell him; that he had captured her heart, that he was all she desired, and how fearful she had been that _this_ would never happen.

Foyle returned her gaze steadily, hoping to convey reassurance. He had dreamed of this moment for so long that he almost couldn't believe what was happening.

He mirrored Sam's gesture and brought her hand to his lips for a kiss. He felt so very protective of her.

"What will your friends think when they find out about us?"

Sam searched his eyes again.

"Are we an 'us'?"

Foyle gave her a considering look.

"So it would seem..."

Sam's smile lit up her face. Her confidence was gaining ground now that she was more sure of him.

"Oh, that's lovely. I was so worried that it had all been for nothing."

Foyle smiled; he was quite aware that he had been manipulated, but he could not bring himself to mind.

"Well, at least I already have your father's approval."

Sam tried her best to look surprised, but he had known her too long.

"Really? How marvellous..."

A raised eyebrow indicated his scepticism of her innocence, but the twinkle of blue eyes diluted the effect.

"Mmm."

Suddenly Sam was eying him up as if he were a delicious pastry. She leaned closer and smoothed a hand down his lapel. It created an air of intimacy that quite diverted him.

"...but do we really need to be talking about my father just at this moment?"

A successfully distracted Foyle appeared mesmerised by Sam's lips.

"Um? N...no, no."

Sam's voice dropped to a whisper as she inveigled herself even closer.

"After all, we are now _officially_ officially engaged."

Foyle could feel her breath upon his lips; it wouldn't take much to close the gap between them.

Just the small matter of overcoming a lifetime of reticence.

Foyle took heart from the fact that Sam showed no sign of withdrawal or reluctance.

Any thought of retreat was flung from his brain once their lips finally touched. Foyle had intended his kiss to be a light and respectable promise of things to come, but what Sam may have lacked in experience, she more than made up for in enthusiasm.

Within moments Foyle gathered her close and her arms wound around his shoulders. His breath hitched in his chest as their kiss deepened without his conscious volition; his only thought was to follow the glowing thread of desire wherever it may lead. The passion unleashed was multiplied as it sang back and forth between them, each kiss blending with the next, until there was no concept of parting.

Sam felt her heart bounce excitedly; how many times in the past had she imagined being held in Christopher's arms and kissed like this? When he lowered his head to cover her mouth with his, the reality far exceeded her fantasies. Light and tender, his firm lips moved over hers with such care that she was almost moved to tears. When he gently coaxed her mouth open with his tongue, she could no more have denied him than stop breathing. She wanted to taste him and have him taste her. Unaccustomed heat flooded her body as desire washed through her; she didn't know exactly what she wanted, but she knew with an increasing sense of urgency that she didn't want _this, _whatever it was, to end.

Just when she thought her legs would give way, the gentle pressure of his mouth eased. With a final butterfly light touch, he drew back and Sam opened her eyes. Still dazed, it took her a moment to realise that she was clinging to Christopher as if her life depended on it.

"Oh..._gosh."_

Foyle was just as shaken. He was quite certain that his own expression mirrored hers. He felt exhilarated, as if he had survived a lightning strike, but was shocked to the core that he had very nearly yielded to the overwhelming urge to pursue this passion to its natural conclusion, right here, right now, and without benefit of clergy.

The image of a disappointed Reverend Stewart was enough to dampen Foyle's ardour, so he gently pulled back, loosening but not breaking their embrace. Sam's glowing face regarded him.

"I had no idea, none at all, that it could be so _wonderful. _The only bad thing about it was that you _stopped; _I wanted that kiss to last forever._"_

Foyle was only human, fallible as the next man to a heartfelt compliment. With fingers that still shook slightly, he tucked an escaped lock of Sam's hair back from her face.

"I can assure you that you are not alone with that thought." He regarded her flushed face and kiss-swollen lips. "When I look at you I forget to be sensible; I want to hold you, keep you close, and protect you."

"I love you, too."

Foyle's mouth quirked.

"I haven't -"

Sam boldly interrupted him by putting her fingers on his lips.

"Yes, you did. Anyone can say the words, but you _showed_ me that you love me."

It amused him to think that he would have to get used to her unorthodox conversational skills at home in the future.

"Even so, I'd like to use the words too, if you don't mind."

_I look into your eyes and I want to hold you forever._

"I do love you." He scanned her face as if committing her indelibly to his memory. "If I ever dared to imagine this moment, I would have imagined a respectable courtship, followed by an equally respectable, if lengthy, engagement..."

Sam's moue of disappointment pleased him inordinately.

"...but as I am not in the first bloom of youth, I don't want to wait any longer than absolutely necessary."

Sam brightened perceptibly, and hung on his arm. It made it so much easier for him than he thought.

"Marry me, Sam, and soon, if it pleases you."

Sam, his dear Sam, tilted her head as she looked at him with her heart in her eyes.

"I thought we were already engaged?"

Foyle's lips twitched.

"Yes, but now it's really official. So I'd be obliged if there was an official reply."

Sam's smile widened.

"Oh, yes, absolutely yes. Officially."

Foyle started to relax at last.

But he should have guessed that Sam wasn't finished.

"Of course, that does mean you have to kiss me again."

Feeling the flare of desire that just the _thought_ of what happened a few moments ago caused, Foyle's feelings were mixed about the sensibility of another kiss.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea..."

"Probably not."

But her wide grin gave away her true thoughts.

So he kissed her anyway, and she kissed him right back.

_Sparkage._

The Present.

When I finally surfaced from what felt like a very short nap, daylight streamed through the curtains we didn't get around to closing last night. I ached all over, but it was the delicious satiated ache of a well loved woman.

I frowned. Okay, a well loved woman with a full bladder. Funny how prosaic life can be. I slid carefully out from under Mike's arm and tiptoed out to the bathroom.

A naked woman with seriously messed up hair grinned back at me in the mirror as I loaded my toothbrush. I felt so damn good it was all I could do not to sing, and really, I can't sing. Or shouldn't.

Ten minutes later I returned to the bedroom with coffee and croissants and waited for the aroma to rouse Mike. It took about four seconds.

His eyes looked incredibly blue this morning; the five o'clock shadow was as sexy as hell as he shaded his eyes from the sun and smiled.

"Hello gorgeous."

I grinned back.

"Hello handsome."

Mike propped himself up with pillows and smirked as he took a croissant.

"Actually I was talking to the croissant, but thanks."

"Git."

I slid my hand under the cover, heading for a spot that I now knew would render him almost helpless. Mike caved immediately.

"Okay, okay. Stop. I give up. I meant you, not the delicious warm buttery confection. So, please, come and sit here while we have our first breakfast together as a couple."

He lifted an arm and I climbed in beside him.

"So, we're a couple, huh?"

"Damn straight. I wouldn't waste some of my best moves on just anyone."

I pretended surprise.

"They were your best moves? Oh, I thought we were still on the nursery slopes, y'know, while you got used to things...?"

Mike's smile was laid back and unconcerned. He was confident – justifiably - that he had acquitted himself with honour.

"Well, I have a few more tricks up my sleeve, but I thought I'd save them for a rainy day."

I smirked.

"Oh, never thought I'd look forward to the rain. Yum."

"Minx."

We lay in contented silence while we finished off the croissants and coffee, then Mike shifted to look at me.

"Have you decided?"

I was distracted by the scent of _my_ warm naked male and didn't catch on immediately.

"Mmm? Decided what?"

"When we get married, of course."

"When did it become 'when'? I thought it was still 'if'."

"Ah, y'know, I'm an old fashioned kinda guy and I want to be married to the woman having my babies. Besides, if someone takes advantage of me, well, I think they have to do the right thing by me. Otherwise I might feel used."

I could tell he was trying to be amusing, but there was an undertone that told me he was serious about marriage. The 'babies' bit worried me too. I didn't even know if I was capable of being a parent.

"I wasn't using you. We were using each other. A _lot._"

Mike rolled over and before I could do anything he had my legs pinned by one of his and his chest and hips lightly pressed me to the bed. I opened my mouth to ask him what he was up to when he _interrupted_ me. His kiss tasted of coffee and lust; I forgot what I was trying to say right about the time his hips flexed and his arousal nudged at me. I wriggled to accept him, but he held off penetration, just teasing me with the lightest of touches, giving no more than an inch, before pulling back and doing it again. It was as frustrating as hell.

"_Mike...!"_

I could see the strain on his face, feel it in the corded muscles of his arms and hear it in his voice. He wasn't doing this for fun.

"Tell me that we're _just_ using each other. Tell me that this is _just_ sex. A quick roll, a fuck 'n' go; look at me and tell me that you don't feel anything else. Tell me, Lily, that you don't love me too. Because _then_ I'll not bother you again."

Honestly, I think I was willing to tell him whatever he wanted to hear, just to get him inside me, but when I looked up into his eyes I knew I couldn't lie to him. The thought of not seeing him again scared me into the truth.

"I can't..."

Mike looked pained and tried to pull away, but I stopped him and he frowned as I tried to explain.

"I can't..." I allowed a small grin to escape. "...get you out of my mind...I just want to be with you. You're one of a kind."

Blue eyes blazed as he quivered above me. I ran my hands down his arms and slid my palms around his ribs and on to his back. He didn't say anything but it was obvious to me that he was listening hard, just as I had.

..._love me too..._

I put as much truth as I could into my voice.

"I can't lie to myself any longer..."

I imagined being able to see him like this, well, almost like this, every day. To kiss him, to be with him, to hold him.

Something inside me warmed and melted as my soul sighed.

"I think I've loved you for quite a while..."

Mike dropped his forehead to touch gently with mine. I couldn't see the smile on his face, but I could hear one in his voice.

"It's about _time._.."

He look at me and we grinned like idiots, which, oddly enough, makes it difficult to kiss properly, but we tried anyway, until Mike finally lifted his head.

"...and just for the record, I love you _too."_

I would have sassed him, but just as he said 'too', he plunged in me, well on his way to finishing what he started. As distractions go, I'd rate it a twelve, maybe even a fifteen.

Out of ten, naturally.

Blearily I opened one eye and wondered what had woken me up. The sun was still bright, but it had moved across the window and the shadows fell at different angles. It finally registered with me that I had heard my front door close.

The idea that someone I knew well enough to give a key to might find me _deshabille _spurred me out of bed. I grabbed my robe and headed for the main room but there was no-one there. A quick look around the apartment didn't turn up anyone, but I'd already figured from the lingering scent that Grammas had made a flying visit. I wondered why she hadn't stayed for coffee. Had she seen me and Mike sleeping and left?

Mike appeared, looking dishevelled but fetching with a towel slung low around his hips.

"You okay?"

I nodded.

"Yeah, it was Grammas. Usually she stays for coffee, but I guess she thought I was busy."

I looked around the room and noticed a little gift bag on the table. A small card was addressed to both of us, with a short note inside, which I didn't immediately read.

Mike came over to me, curiosity written all over him.

"What is it?"

"I don't know; a gift from Grammas."

I said that I didn't know, but I had a sudden hunch. It was about the right size and shape...

My stomach swooshed up and down and I felt a little light-headed.

Mike was at my side in an instant, guiding me to the sofa. He plucked the gift bag from my hands and put it on the small table.

"You look like you've seen a ghost. Can I get you something? Glass of water? A cracker? Anything?"

_A cracker?_

I shook my head. I still felt a little shaky, but I would live. I was so used to looking after myself that I found his solicitousness endearing. It felt different to when he looked after me when I left the hospital, because now I was not ill.

"No, I'm okay. I just need more breakfast." I yawned massively, "And possibly more sleep."

Mike smirked unabashed.

"Wasn't me screaming 'yes, yes' all night."

In a juvenile but wholly satisfying manner, I stuck out my tongue.

With a smirk, Mike retrieved the gift bag and dangled it in front of me.

"Aren't you curious?"

I grinned.

"You mean _you_ are. Go on, help yourself; it's for both of us."

He took me at my word, and lifted the tissue wrapped contents out of the bag. Typical bloke, he didn't see the note, but he read it over my shoulder once he'd realised that there was one.

_To Lily and Mike,_

_My darling Lily, I was beginning to think this day would never come._

_The enclosed is a gift for you and Mike, to be held in your care until it has to be passed on._

_Like me, you will know when the time is right. _

_Lily, you were fascinated with the enclosed when you were very little, _

_so I was relieved that your aunt Jasmine, my eldest grand-daughter, was never one for _

_family traditions and didn't want to look after it. I give this to you both with my love,_

_Ciao darlings, _

_Katherine St Just._

_P.S. Try to have a girl first, they are such fun, XX_

Honestly, Grammas is the limit. Baby talk on our first morning as a couple and Mike's reading it too.

Which reminded me.

"Mike..."

He stopped unwrapping again and looked up at my tone, one eyebrow raised in enquiry.

"Earlier, you mentioned a baby..."

His smile was infectious.

"_Babies_, more than one."

He seemed to be very happy with the idea. I didn't want to disappoint him, but I wasn't sure how I felt about it yet. To my surprise, I wasn't as horrified as I thought I would be. A little Mikey, with those baby blues.

I sighed.

"Supposing I can't...? I'm not twenty-two any more. I don't know if...it's even possible."

He set aside the gift and took both of my hands in his; he was warm and reassuring.

"I'm sure it will be fine, please don't get upset. But even if it isn't to be, well, that's okay too. What will be, will be, as my mum used to say. Things have a habit of working out."

I was so carried away with lust yesterday that I never gave anything else a thought. Just as well that I've been on long term contraception even though I wasn't seeing anyone. I'm supposed to wait six months after stopping before trying to get pregnant. At least that meant I didn't have to rush into a decision.

"I use an implant..."

"I know."

"...I'd have to wait -" What he said suddenly registered. "You _know?"_

Mike nodded, suddenly sober.

"Yeah. When you were coming back from theatre after the first operation I was waiting for news when I overheard the surgeon say something about complications. I didn't hear it all, but it was about the implant, which they'd had to remove. I just assumed it was too close to the wound."

I felt ice run under my skin. They'd removed the implant _weeks _ago.

I grabbed his arm.

"Why didn't you _tell_ me? This was _important._"

Mike didn't seem at all bothered by the bombshell that had knocked me sideways. Something wasn't ringing true about his reaction.

"Well, I didn't know that _you_ didn't know. Besides, what difference does it make? I don't mind if we start a family straight off the bat; it'd be cool."

_How can I love someone and still want to throttle them?_

"_I mind._ Why didn't anyone tell me at the check ups?"

Mike pulled a 'search me' face.

"I guess they didn't think you'd be too worried because your med-chip noted that you'd missed your last renewal appointment; the implant they removed had been useless for three months anyway."

"_What?"_

Mike seemed either unwilling or unable to see the ramifications. I'd been without protection since _before_ the mission. I'd had no periods for months, but I thought nothing of it, I'd just put it down to the implant and post-op stress.

I reminded myself not to panic.

It didn't work. I stood up and paced across the room to stare out of the window. The fab view didn't help. I turned to look back at Mike.

"Lemme get this straight. You _and _most of the hospital staff knew that I was unprotected, at the least from the moment they removed the implant and probably longer than that, but yesterday you didn't think to ask me if we were fixed before shagging me senseless. Correct?"

Mike had the grace to look sheepish, but I could detect a smidgen of smug pride mixed in with it.

"Senseless, huh?"

Grrr.

"_Focus, _Mike, and answer the question."

"What question? Oh, don't pull that face. Yes, I was aware of what happened to the implant while you were in hospital, but you were in no fit state to be needing it. I just assumed that you'd sorted it out after you were cleared for work. Yes, I admit that I should have checked with you first, but you weren't the only one being shagged senseless you know. Small brain was in charge, I went all keen gardener; guilty as charged y'r honour."

_What?_

"Keen gardener?"

He shrugged and I had a prescient glimpse of what little Mikey would look like with his hand caught in the biscuit tin.

"Yeah, well, erm. Y'know, couldn't wait to get_ planting_."

While my jaw hit the floor – again - Mike had finished unwrapping the gift from Grammas. Even though I was half expecting it, it still came as a shock to see the small trinket box that I had given to Chris just before my retrieval. It diverted me away from the subject of gardening, at least for a few seconds.

I don't know what I expected to happen when Mike saw the box, but I was dimly aware that I was holding my breath. He traced a gentle finger over the delicate filigree then hesitantly lifted the lid and looked inside. He frowned.

I _really _wanted to know what he was thinking.

_But I sure as hell didn't want him to know what I was thinking._

TBC


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: Foyle's war and its original characters are a copyright product, used only for entertainment purposes. No infringement intended. Lily and other original characters are of my invention.

Author: hazeleyes57

Title: What Will Be, Ch18

Rating: 18, MA, sexual references.

A/N: Starts straight after the last chapter. Mike and Lily are in her apartment and Mike is holding the trinket box.

What Will Be Chapter 18

"What's up?"

Mike glanced at me almost as if he'd forgotten that I was there. He placed the trinket box on the table but continued to look at it. He was still frowning, but he shrugged it off and gave me a smile.

"Nothing. It's a lovely little thing. What's the story?"

I looked at it and remembered. Remembered the real story, not just the family history. I hugged my robe close, feeling goosebumps raise the fine hairs on my arms.

"To be honest, I'd actually forgotten the family heirloom thing. We've had it in the family since the year dot. Rumour has it that one of my ancestors gave it to the man she loved as a gift. They kept it in the family and handed it down through the eldest child, usually given into the care of the women until it is handed on. I hadn't remembered it until I saw it just now. I've not seen it since I was barely walking."

Mike picked it up again, still apparently fascinated.

"And the thing about your aunt?"

"Jaz didn't want it. She was the eldest and entitled to look after it, but she was always a bit of a rebel and hated all that 'sentimental crap' as she called it. Come to think of it, she was the only one who refused to use her full name because she hated that fact that the females were all named after flowers."

Mike huffed a laugh out.

"Yeah, I noticed that when they visited you after your op."

"It's another tradition."

Mike reached out and took my hand, pulling gently but insistently until I ended up on the sofa beside him. He put his arm around me and hugged me close.

"We'll name our girls after flowers too, if you like."

_Oh God._

"What if I have a boy?"

I was only playing along, but Mike appeared to give it some thought.

"We'll call him...Phlox."

"Phlox? Are you mad?"

"Means 'harmony'. No? Okay, what about Foxglove? We could call him 'Foxy' for short. Or Gladiolus, it means 'strength of character'."

I couldn't help feeling that I was gaping at Mike. Was he actually serious?

"He'd need it with a name like that."

"Gloxinia – 'love at first sight'. Very poetic."

I started to laugh. Unfortunately he took this as encouragement. He play-wrestled me until I was flat on my back and his head rested on my stomach. He looked at me and grinned.

"Juniper – means 'Chastity', what d'you think?"

"He'd be chased all right, but seldom caught if he's got any sense."

"What about Mugwort! Means 'happiness'."

"Not to any child I cared about. If we have a boy, he'd _have_ to have a better name than Mugwort."

Mike grinned.

"Warming up to the idea of a baby, umm?"

I didn't say anything, my feelings were still too mixed, but I managed a smile. Mike had no such restriction on his emotions; he bared my midriff and placed a kiss that could only be called 'tender' on my stomach.

"Hey kiddo, looks like you'd better be a girl, your mum hates all my boy choices."

I frowned. Mike wasn't freaking me out, not yet exactly, but the conversation was. My mother told me a long time ago to trust my instincts and right now the bells were beginning to go off.

Time to investigate.

July 1947

Foyle was a man of his word and now he had proof, not that he needed it, that Sam was a women of hers.

She had taken him at face value when he had asked her to marry him as quickly as she liked; she obviously wanted to marry him a little too quickly judging by the reception he was getting from Reverend and Mrs Stewart.

Their shocked-but-trying-to-hide-it demeanour dismayed Foyle. He should have realised that Sam would be keen to move things forward without necessarily considering the interpretation that might be laid at the door of such haste.

Mrs Stewart fingered her pearl necklace, a nervous gesture revealing her inner anxiety, though her quiet voice barely disturbed the atmosphere of her husband's study.

"Samantha has requested September the sixth, barely six weeks hence. September is such a busy month for the church; and a wedding does take some organisation, I'm not sure there is enough time. One does rather question the need for such haste...?"

The open ended prompt invited Foyle to respond immediately, but he resisted.

"Will there be any difficulty with that date?"

Reverend Stewart glanced very briefly at his wife before he consulted his diary.

"Ah, umm, I thought so. Luck, be it good or bad, depending on your point of view, has it that the Church will be available at 11 o'clock on the sixth. We've had a deferment: the McKay wedding is put back two weeks since poor David broke his leg. He should be out of his cast by the week after the sixth, but his bride doesn't want to risk marrying on the thirteenth, so the sixth is free at the moment."

Foyle nodded, relieved.

"Splendid. Sam will be pleased."

Mrs Stewart wasn't ready to give up just yet. Beneath the soft voice and genteel manner there was a Vicar's wife used to handling parishioners who demanded more of the Vicar than perhaps they ought.

"_Such_ a lot to prepare in such a short space of time, don't you think?"

Foyle's brow furrowed as both eyebrows lifted in polite enquiry.

"Really? Well, I'm sure that it will turn out well. How can it not with two such charming ladies organising it?"

Mrs Stewart accepted the compliment as graciously as she could while also trying to hide her frustration at being unable to pin Foyle down to an answer. Reverend Stewart's expression was suspiciously bland as he awaited the outcome of the subtle battle of wills.

"Yes, thank you, I assure you we will do our best, naturally, but even so, six _weeks_..."

As she trailed off she looked at Foyle with a quiet desperation that said to him '_don't make me ask you'._

The moment was broken by Sam sticking her head around the door.

"Tea in the drawing room when everyone is ready. I say, what's up? Why the long face, mother?"

Sam entered the room more fully.

"Mother is finding your need for a wedding so quickly a little daunting, Samantha. She feels that it isn't really enough time to prepare, and wondered if perhaps a later date was possible?"

Sam looked at her parents and then at Foyle. He could see the moment the penny dropped and recognised the stubborn lift to her chin.

"Absolutely not, I'm afraid. It has to be as quickly as possible."

Her mother paled and looked aghast. Her worst fears were realised. What _would _people think?

"_Oh, Samantha!"_

"Well, it's not my fault. Blame Christopher."

"_Samantha!_"

Her father looked taken aback as he tried to comfort his wife, who was now dabbing at her nose with a small handkerchief. His daughter had, to his mind, succumbed to the ills he had been so concerned about when last he visited her in Hastings. He had rather taken a liking to Foyle and had trusted him to take care of his daughter, but this was not what he had in mind. However, it did at least seem that he was willing to do the honourable thing.

"I hardly think that is fair, Samantha..."

Foyle stirred, his sympathies somewhat with his future in-laws. Sam could be very persuasive when she wanted to be, as he knew only too well. He gave his fiancee a chiding look.

"_Sam_."

"But it is." She turned to her parents. "_He's_ the one making me wait until we're married. Honestly, it seems like an _eternity._"

Mrs Stewart snapped to attention with the speedy finesse worthy of a sergeant-major. Her tears dried as if non-existent as she frogmarched her daughter from the room. The last her bemused father heard was his wife taking Samantha to task for behaving in a manner unbecoming of a young lady.

Reverend Stewart turned to Foyle, his faith in the man restored.

"Perhaps a small sherry?"

Though Foyle would have preferred a nice malt, he nodded. He thought the vicar probably needed it more than he did.

The Present.

It had been a very informative week.

Work was nothing out of the ordinary, although one or two pointed comments about Randy Mandy and Mike fizzled out when I didn't rise to the bait. Right now she was the last of my problems.

Remember I mentioned earlier that our life histories are worked out when we start our Temporal careers? We are not privy to our own lives or those of our colleagues, that's too much temptation to resist for the average human being, but the Powers-That-Be have a handle on everything. Or so I've always thought. The whole point of Temporal Control is that history remains the way it's supposed to be. Unfortunately, since we started playing with time, every now and then (sorry, no pun intended) there is a glitch. Or, even worse, a Paradox in the making.

Bad news.

I've been making some under-the-radar enquiries with a friend of mine, who will remain nameless and blameless, and they have admitted after a little pressure (okay, so it was blackmail, but I never told you), that something biggish was in the wind. My Boss knew about it; well, not so much 'about' more like 'of' it. He didn't have details, he was just doing what he was told. That didn't come as much of a surprise to me now; I thought at the time that he'd given in a little easily when I asked to go back to Hastings.

Other things were starting to add up. Mike had already begun the calculations to retrieve me when I was shot, yes, he surely saved my life, but how did he know to do it? I still can't forget the look on his face just as I was leaving. He had looked sad, but there was sympathy in his expression too. I'd never seen him look quite like that before. I've come to the conclusion that he knew I was going to fall for Christopher, and he knew that I would have to leave him. I realise now that if Mike loved me, then he would also have been conflicted about sending me to be with another man.

_If _he loved me.

Which I'm now not so sure about.

I know I'm supposed to trust my instincts, and they are telling me that he's on the level, but there's a niggling doubt that won't go away.

I sent Mike back to his own place midweek with the excuse that we both had things to do and we each needed some sleep. We had also decided to keep our 'relationship' from our work colleagues for as long as possible, so it was best if he showed his face at home occasionally.

But there are some things I'm keeping to myself for the moment, that is, I'm not telling the Chief yet.

I've been back to see my consultant at the hospital. His Girl Friday kept giving me the run around, but I waited until he eventually had to come back to his office and then I wasn't taking 'no' for an answer.

Bottom line was no big surprise. He eventually admitted that he knew about the implant and that it wasn't functioning. He told me that he thought it would interfere with the stuff they put me on during tissue regeneration, but he'd already shot himself in the foot by saying that it wasn't functioning – how could it interfere if it wasn't working? In the end he shut up, too little, too late, but he said one last thing before I left his office.

"We all have someone we have to answer to."

At least he had the grace to appear apologetic. But then he wouldn't be carrying the can.

I returned to my place and fixed something to eat even though I wasn't hungry. While I was eating I had the trinket box on the table in front of me. The filigree was slightly worn in places, as if more than one hand had traced the silver-work over the years. I remembered giving it to Chris, remembered the cold and the dark, and the sound of his voice, begging me to hold on.

I started to cry. Not big wrenching sob stuff, just the silent sliding tears that rolled down my face and off my jaw. My chest ached with the pain of loss, but I needed this release. It was the first time I really grieved for _my_ loss.

Gawd, I'm so emotional all of a sudden. Like I said to Chris, I don't do all the crying stuff.

I put my plate in the washer and snagged some loo roll to blow my nose on the way to the shower. I stripped off and stepped into the stream of hot water, allowing it to wash away the tears.

New me stepped out fifteen minutes later, full of resolve. If the Powers That Be had a plan there was no point fighting it, like Mike said, 'what will be, will be', but I just wish that they had trusted me with the details. I had to know the truth, and Mike was the only one I could ask.

If he would tell me the truth.

Luckily for me he was home. I'd been stewing all the way over and was in a rare mood for a fight. I had to remind myself that he was probably unaware that I had any idea what was going on; he wouldn't be expecting a confrontation.

When he opened the door, give him his due, he appeared really pleased to see me; surprised, but pleased. I hadn't seen him for a few days, not even at work, and I'd severely underestimated the effect that seeing him had on me.

Even though I thought he'd betrayed me, I still wanted him. _Bad._

"Lily, I wasn't expecting you, but this is great, I've really missed you, come on in. Are you okay? Is everything all right?"

Mike stepped back, but I could see he had picked up the difference in my behaviour. He wasn't normally that garrulous.

I moved past him into the place I'd called home during my convalescence. I turned back as he closed the door. When he looked at me I was close enough to hear the hitch in his breath and see his pupils dilate.

He was just as aware of me as I was of him.

I was going to say '_I know', _all dramatic intensity and whatever, and then let him bluster his way out – or not – but when he reached out and touched me, I knew instantly that any other stuff would wait until later.

The same fizzing crackle of awareness snapped between the two of us. I could see in the way he moved that this wasn't going to go the way I'd predicted on my way over.

This time it was him who hit the wall when I shoved him backwards, my lips glued to his. Before he could stop me I grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled upwards. The shirt buttons pinged off very satisfyingly and fell to the floor. Mike's expression shifted quickly from surprise to desire, and he was right there for the next kiss. As before, things escalated quickly. I could feel him, big and solid, pressing against my belly. I slid my hand between us, rubbing firmly over his arousal. I felt his moan in my mouth and heat flooded through me. I inwardly cursed that I was wearing jeans instead of a skirt, but I'd been here to confront him, not frack him senseless. I need not have worried though; he was already fumbling at the fly, tugging at the material, dragging the stiff clothing downwards, just as I was trying to do the same to him. Finally he was free, but my jeans were hooked up on my boots. I growled in frustration, but Mike spun me round to bend me over the back of his sofa; the big squashy cushions supported me well enough in the split second I had to consider them before he buried himself to the hilt in me, taking my breath away.

A hand on my hip and the sofa's back held me in place as Mike pounded into me. His other hand slid under my tee, stroking, kneading, and teasing my body until I was a trembling mass of need. Everything felt incredible; the sensations flooded through me, rippling waves pulsing outwards, the glorious blaze rising higher with every stroke. I was almost mindless, I couldn't think of anything, only _feel_. I felt Mike's lips graze my neck and turned instinctively towards their wet heat, seeking his kiss, but I was utterly distracted by our image in the mirror. The sheer animal need reflected there shocked me with its intensity and moved things up another notch, even though I didn't think it could get any better. He thrust, I bucked, and the world fell away into incandescence; I clamped down on Mike as he drove deeper and faster than ever, riding the waves of my pleasure until the twisting hitch and jerk of his release made me soar again.

It was several long seconds before cold reality returned to me. Mike was my drug of choice and I'm not sure that I want to give him up, even if he doesn't have the answers I want to hear.

With his arms around me, holding me to him, still so intimately joined, his first coherent words surprised me.

"I'm sorry."

_So am I, but why are you?_

"What for?"

"I'm sorry I was so desperate for you that I couldn't wait for you to get out of your clothes; sorry for whatever it was - or is – that brought you over here so mad at me, though not sorry that you are here, especially right _here..."_

A lazy thrust reminded me – as if I needed it – where he was.

"...but I'm sincerely sorry for not checking with you first about your...safety."

I didn't look at him.

"No, I won't get pregnant, you're off the hook."

Mike's chin rested gently against my shoulder.

"If I was on a hook – and I assure you that isn't how I see it – then it would be my choice and desire to get comfortable on it, because nothing would please me more than to have a child with you."

I desperately wanted to believe him. He sounded so sincere. But I couldn't think with him so close to me, I just wanted to be swept away from my doubts and for that I had to find out the truth.

I disentangled myself from him and dressed quickly, feeling self-conscious now the sexual nimbus had faded slightly. Mike looked puzzled and a little hurt by my withdrawal.

"What is it?"

I stopped moving and looked at him. It wasn't fair that he _didn't_ look faintly ridiculous standing there in just a shirt with no buttons. He just looked sexy, damn him.

I sighed heavily.

"Okay. Truth time. Did you have any extra knowledge about my one and only mission, that I wasn't told?"

He didn't need to speak, I could see it in his face.

"Lily..."

_Keepcalmkeepcalmkeepcalm._

I took a breath.

"You don't have to break your word to anyone by speaking aloud, but did you know that I was being _sent_ to Christopher? Deliberately?"

Mike closed his eyes briefly, but the pain was still evident when he nodded once.

I was expecting his answer, but I didn't expect it to hurt so much.

TBC.


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimer: Foyle's War is a copyright product belonging to someone else, not me. Characters used for entertainment only, no infringement is intended.

Title: What Will Be 19

Rating: M or 18 just to be on the safe side.

Author: hazeleyes57

A/N: Begins straight on from the previous chapter. Lily has discovered that Mike knew she was being sent back for an unorthodox visit and wonders whether she can trust him now. Sam's wedding is getting closer but her nerves appear to be getting the better of her.

What Will Be, Chapter 19

"How much did you know? All of it? That I'd be _shot_?"

Mike was shocked out of his silence.

"Dear God _no, _of course not! All I was told was that you would need an urgent retrieval. I figured for myself that it might involve an emergency, so I back-calculated for every 'day' that you were gone."

_Frack, bet that was a lot of work. _

"Okay. Thanks for that, at least. What about the rest of it? My convalescence, you taking care of me and...everything."

Mike shook his head, but not in an innocent way. It was more like _I'm going to hate you knowing this _sort of way.

"It wasn't what you think."

_Oh, yeah. There was the crushing disappointment._

"Which means it was exactly like I think. _That's_ why the Chief let you have 'family' leave to look after me."

Mike looked shaken, pale and angry.

"No, it wasn't like that. I offered, I wanted to look after you." He grabbed his jeans and stepped into them quickly. "It's no secret that I love you, even you've been aware of it, though you dismissed it as a crush. But that doesn't alter the fact that I _do_ love you."

I desperately wanted to believe him, but that part of me was being heavily squashed.

"But we were a set-up, or at least I was. How do I know that you're telling the truth? You've had some fun, got into my bed, I bet everyone's laughing at my expense."

I felt perilously close to those fracking tears again.

Mike pulled me back into his arms.

"No-one else knows. The Chief was given his direction, he just followed where the letter led, doing his job. The Powers That Be, as you like to call them, only give minimal information, as you well know. Even I wasn't told that much. A lot of it I pieced together by inference and what _wasn't _being said."

He pulled back to look me in the eyes.

"No-one, but _no-one _told me to make love to you, or to tell you that I love you. That was all _me. _And I sure as hell haven't told anyone about _us _because that's what _you_ wanted."

August 1947

Foyle looked at the flowers he held. A small posy of freesias, their scent redolent of hot summers past and Andrew as a young child on the beach. It was odd how a simple fragrance could bring back a memory, complete and so real, if only for a few moments.

Rosalind had picked the flowers from the window box on the balcony outside their bedroom window. That last summer the open window had filled the house with their scent. The following summer she was gone and he hadn't the heart to tend to the little patch of soil.

This year, for the first time in a long while, he had caught the achingly familiar smell when he had opened the bedroom window door during a particularly hot day.

A few small lilac-coloured flowers in the window box moved gently in the light breeze.

Foyle had frowned.

_They must have self-seeded. _

If he were a fanciful man, he might have taken this as a sign from Rosalind. Was she telling him not to let her go? Or could it be that she was letting him know that it was okay for him to move on?

Foyle didn't consider himself a fanciful man, but he felt a need to take some flowers to Rosalind. It wasn't for the anniversary of her death, or her birthday or their wedding anniversary, or...any other occasion, other than the thought that he should let her know about Sam.

Hence his presence, with the freesia posy, at Rosalind's grave.

_I've never told you this, but in the weeks after you...left us...your father asked me if I would ever marry again. I was surprised by his frankness. Surprised, but also angry. You were my wife and his daughter, how could he ask such a question?_

_I told him that I didn't know._

_In my mind I couldn't visualise myself ever loving anyone as much again; I couldn't bear the agony of another parting. I couldn't imagine my life being that perfect again. I saw my life as tainted. You so loved life, yet you were gone. And I was still here. _

_Andrew has grown into a fine young man, but you will not see him marry, or have children of his own, or share in his achievements. It's the hardest thing to bear; knowing that you will not be there for any of it._

Foyle smoothed his hand down his tie, a nervous tell that he was not so calm as he appeared. He glanced around the churchyard, grateful that he was alone.

_I thought you'd like these._

He carefully placed the flowers in the water pot there for that purpose and stood up.

He sighed gently.

_My dear Rosalind, I am truly thankful that you were part of my life, and I always will be._

_I have come to tell you that I am getting married. I never thought I would take this path more than once, but someone showed me that it was possible to love again. _

_My love for Sam in no way diminishes the love I had for you. _

_But, so help me God, I do love her._

Foyle replaced the hat he had removed while tending to the flowers. He rested a hand on Rosalind's headstone and dipped his head once.

He turned and walked from the church yard, his measured steps taking him home.

Sam turned from her position by the cooker when she heard the key in the front door.

"Hello, it's me, I'm in the kitchen."

She heard footsteps out in the hall muffle as they hit the rug and a moment later her 'young man' hesitated in the doorway.

Foyle's eyebrow went up at the very pleasant surprise of Sam's presence in the house.

"This is nice, what are you doing here?"

"I hope you don't mind me using the key you gave me."

"Not at all, it's your key now."

Foyle sniffed appreciatively as Sam pulled the baking tray of buns out of the oven and placed them on the kitchen table before wiping her hands on the tea towel.

"My mother says that nothing calms the nerves like baking, so here I am."

Foyle smiled as she crossed to greet him.

"It's a kind thought, but I'm not nervous."

Sam undid his suit jacket, slid her arms around his waist and thrilled at his reciprocal embrace.

"Yes, but _I_ am, so we have buns. Now kiss me please?"

Nothing loathe, he obliged with pleasure.

He could see that Sam was pink in the face when they parted, but he could tell that it was not from the heat of the oven.

"Now, what are you nervous about? Everything is ready for Saturday, surely?"

"I know it is, but mother is working herself up into a frenzy. I have no idea what she will want me to do at the vicarage over the next four days."

Sam sighed heavily before continuing.

"It's not whether we'll be ready, I'm more worried about _you._ I know I'm being silly, but you haven't changed your mind, have you?"

Both Foyle's eyebrows shot up in mild alarm.

"Why? Have you?"

Sam looked aghast.

"Good heavens, no! I'm just worried that you'll realise that you don't want to be tied to me ' 'til death do we part'."

Foyle relaxed again.

"I seem to recall someone telling me that it was a personal choice who one was tied to."

Sam grinned at the reminder.

"Just so. Good, that's cleared that up. I shall enjoy the buns far more now."

She settled Foyle at the table and within moments had demonstrated that she had already familiarised herself with the kitchen and its various contents as she placed a plate and knife in front of him and, with another grin, directed him to help himself.

The subtle undertone and the cheeky smile told Foyle more than the words had.

He placed a still very warm bun on his plate and looked at his bride-to-be, his smile carefully hidden.

"Only four more days."

Sam pouted.

"Oh poo. I thought the way to a man's heart was through his stomach. Alas, you have resisted my feminine wiles."

Foyle's smile escaped.

"If it's any consolation it's been hard, umm, _difficult _for me, too_."_

Sam was torn between laughter and thwarted passion. Four days had never seemed so long.

She told him so.

Foyle was entirely sympathetic, but he wanted Sam to have the white wedding she deserved.

He placed a hand over Sam's as he explained and was surprised to feel her hand trembling.

"What's wrong? You're shaking like a leaf."

Sam made a visible effort to gather herself together and gave him a small smile.

"Oh, it's nothing wrong. Mother decided to give me the pre-wedding talk."

Foyle's lip barely twitched but Sam spotted it.

"Oh, don't give me that innocent look; you think it's dreadfully funny that she's so old-fashioned."

"Not at all, I think it's quite charming. Was it...er...helpful?"

Sam flushed. As a brief distraction she broke off a piece of bun and popped it into her mouth, chewed briefly and swallowed.

"Well, I confessed to her that I wasn't entirely without some idea of what goes on, which was just as well as I don't think I could bear that from Mother, no matter how well intentioned she thought to be, so I assured her that I was quite comfortable with the little I did know, thank you, and anything else I needed to know I was sure that you would help me through. She did seem a little relieved."

Foyle imagined that she would be.

He had some of his bun, which was quite delicious, then took a sip of still-scalding tea.

"Good, good. Um...so, the um...trembling? What's going on with that?"

Sam pushed her plate to one side. Mild concern trickled through him; it was not like her to pass on food.

"The thing is, it's the..._wanting _part of the waiting."

He understood that only too well.

"Desire is a very powerful thing."

Sam nodded.

"Exactly. Some evenings when we have been...close...I've found it very difficult to stop myself from...from following the desire. In fact, I'm quite certain that you are the only one keeping us on the straight and narrow. I think I'm going to be shaking like this until after the wedding."

Foyle brought the hand under his to his mouth and kissed the palm. Sam's lips parted with a sudden need for more air as she watched him with eyes that begged him to understand.

After a long considering moment, Foyle stood up, Sam's hand still in his.

"In that case, I think we should go upstairs."

Sam stood automatically until she realised what he had said.

"What?"

His smile gentle, Foyle inclined his head toward the kitchen door.

"Trust me, Sam. You'll still be entitled to have your white wedding."

As she trusted him with her life, this was easier than it might have been, but she was still shaking as she followed him into the hall.

"Are we going up to your room?"

Foyle stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked back at his love.

"Yes, but only if you want to."

The gung-ho grin flashed at him.

"Absolutely. Although, I'm curious about...well, everything, really."

He nodded once.

"Good. Thought you might be."

A few moments later they were standing in the master bedroom. Sam couldn't resist looking around the sun-filled room as she wandered closer, either by accident or design, to the large bed.

Foyle slipped his jacket off and hung it on the back of the dressing chair. His tie followed, then he undid the top button of his shirt, feeling more 'at home'. When he turned to look at Sam he was not surprised to see her looking everywhere but at him.

The picture she presented took his breath away. The light summer dress, pale blue with small sprigs of flowers, was so much more attractive than her uniform and the way it caught the light from the tall windows gave her an ethereal quality as though she were not quite of this earthly plane.

"Sam?"

He had expected some trepidation on her part, but he saw only curiosity and desire in her expression when she turned to him.

"Would you like the curtains drawn...?"

She shook her head.

"I don't think we can be seen. Besides, I think it adds to the sense of naughtiness I feel simply by being in your bedroom."

Foyle smiled; he liked the way she thought.

"What am I going to do with you?"

Sam wasn't sure enough of herself yet to touch him as she wanted to, but she was filled with the desire to find out just what he had in mind.

"I'd like to know that myself."

Foyle held her to him, gently, loosely, free to escape if she wanted to.

"There is more to lovemaking than the act itself. I'd like to help you get over your nerves; to help you relax, without compromising you. But only if you want me to."

Sam nodded, her mind already made up.

"I think what I'd like is for you to kiss me and explain along the way. I trust you implicitly. Shall I undress?"

Both Foyle's brows climbed.

_God no, I'm not a saint._

He shouldn't have been surprised at her forthright approach, but the combination of innocence and seduction was utterly compelling.

"Um, no, just slip your shoes off for now."

The shoes were kicked off immediately, reducing Sam two inches in height, but it didn't hold her back from slipping her arms around her fiancé and seeking out his lips with hers.

One delicious kiss followed after another and another until Sam was sure her head was spinning with delight. When Foyle guided her back onto the bed she went without a thought to propriety and scooted across to make room for him. Excited and impatient, Sam patted the space beside her and Foyle's lips lifted with fond amusement, though his eyes, like hers, glittered with desire.

More kisses followed, kisses that strayed from the lips and sought the contours of Sam's neck, then the valley between her breasts as far as her dress allowed.

Permission was sought and granted, buttons were undone and Sam wondered how it could get any better than this.

Women are complex creatures. On one hand they want a seductive, masterful man who will sweep them up into the maelstrom of passion, but they also want to feel safe and assured in their arms and to know that they are respected despite their surrender. It is a fine line between hesitancy, seduction and force.

Sam was quite unaware that she was being treated with exactly the right combination of respect and mastery. Like a prima ballerina who must make the dance look effortless, Foyle guided Sam through the awakening of her own sensuality, introducing her to a world quite outside her limited experience.

Kisses that caressed, touches that inflamed, Sam forgot any thought of nerves as Foyle gently encouraged her to learn what she liked him to do. When his hand finally closed over a still-clothed breast it wasn't fear that made her jerk under his touch.

"_Oh God!_"

Foyle lifted his head from her throat.

"Too much?"

Sam shook her head.

"No, yes, gosh, _no_. It's so...wonderful. I almost can't stand it."

"Would you like to stop?"

His hand fitted so perfectly over her, like a living support. The heat was incredible but the _last_ thought in Sam's head was to stop.

"No, I don't want this to end. Am I terrible to want even more?"

"Not at all, it's perfectly natural."

"Then...can we...go on?"

"Certainly, but say the word and I shall stop."

Sam looked up at him.

"What if I don't want you to stop?"

Foyle gave her question only brief consideration; although greatly aroused, he was still in command of himself.

"I shall stop regardless."

Sam rolled her eyes with mock dismay.

"I knew you would say that."

Foyle had already resumed the lesson, but indicated that he agreed with her surmise.

"Mmm."

Sam gasped as the hand holding her breast brushed against its peaked tip. An outrageous idea leapt into her mind but she wasn't sure if she could ask.

She shifted slightly, accidentally moving Foyle's mouth from her neck to her throat, and then squirmed delightfully against his torso.

"Do you think...you could..?"

Foyle's mouth lifted the merest fraction required for clarity.

"Ask me anything you wish."

"Your mouth..."

"Mmm?"

"and...and...um...your hand?"

She was grateful that he instantly understood her hesitant request.

As Sam was lying on her back and Foyle was lying on his left side, he couldn't comfortably reach to do her bidding, but a minor adjustment to their positions took care of that, though it required him to transfer some of his weight to his right side and his knee slipped all too naturally between Sam's.

Sam felt almost overwhelmed by the sensations clamouring for her attention. When the brief chill of a summer's day was replaced by the heat of a mouth on her body her arms clasped around the man she loved, unwilling to let him go even for a second. The press of him against her hip and his thigh between hers left her on fire.

As Sam gasped for air, Foyle had seen the red flush spread from her neck to her chest. As she clutched at him in abandon, he increased the pressure of his thigh against the unconscious rocking of her hips. He knew that she would be responsive, but he hadn't realised that she would be so sensitive; it was all to the good though, while he was still in control of himself.

So on a quiet summer afternoon four days before her wedding, which would still be white, Sam discovered the ultimate pleasure her body could give her, especially in the hands of a considerate lover.

When the conflagration had finally died back and Sam had returned to earth, she looked at the man beside her with new eyes.

"Does that happen every time?"

Foyle smiled gently.

"Not necessarily every time, but most of the time, yes."

"Gosh."

In the drowsy but oddly energised aftermath, Sam marvelled at the prospect of feeling like _that _again. Double gosh!

When she looked at him again, she felt happy and relaxed and unafraid. Then she frowned.

"But what about you? I had all the fun."

"I can assure you that I enjoyed every moment. Your happiness is mine too."

"Yes, but what about...?"

Foyle kissed her to distract her, then he smiled.

"I'm fine. I can wait. After all, I'm not the one that was nervous."

Sam's grin was wide.

"Oh, I'm not nervous, I was simply over-excited. But you were right, I feel _wonderful _now_. _Thank you _so_ much!"

"At least you've stopped shaking."

"Mmm, yes. Now I'm ravenous though. And thirsty. I'll go and put the kettle on again."

She slid off the bed and turned back to Foyle as she buttoned the front of her dress.

"You coming?"

"Nearly."

Foyle's dry _sotto voce_ comment baffled Sam but she put the thought to one side while she found her shoes and slipped them on.

She turned at the bedroom door and smiled at the image of him lying on the bed. Her former boss, now her fiancé. She sighed happily.

"I'll tell you one thing, though. If it's like _that_ for everyone, I'm amazed that married people ever manage to leave the house."

The Present.

I don't know if it is over, but I've told Mike I want time to think and I can't do that with him around. I requested a sabbatical from work, which, surprise surprise, was agreed immediately.

I've also moved out of my apartment. Grammas can move mountains, so one tearful great grandchild didn't prove much of a problem. She took one look at me and opened her arms. There's nothing on Earth like her hugs; I swear they have medicinal qualities.

I was kept busy for a couple of weeks, sorting out my legal affairs, dealing with paperwork, moving, decorating, moping, and taking long walks on the beach. Walking in sand is good for leg muscle tone I discovered and much cheaper than the health club.

But eventually I got to a place where I couldn't put things off any longer, there was simply nothing else to distract me. Grammas popped in when I wasn't expecting her and caught me in a weak moment. Obviously I couldn't tell her everything, but I told her I'd fallen for a guy who had lots of lovely qualities, but that we could never be together.

Grammas surprised me again.

"Rubbish. Anyone can see Mike is besotted with you. And you are, with him. Find a way to be together."

"I _can't."_

Grammas sighed and leaned back in her chair, regarding me silently for several moments.

"Have you been taking in the news pods while you've been busy?"

I shook my head. I didn't like the 'I've got bad news' look on her face.

"Mike's dead."

"_What?"_

"Came off his bike."

My brain shut up shop.

I fainted.

When I surfaced I found I was lying on the floor of my living room, covered in a throw. Grammas was seated in a chair beside me.

"Ah, you're awake. How do you feel?"

Everything flooded back. I felt like a hollowed out watermelon.

Mike was _gone! _Now I could never tell him about...

Hang on.

If he was dead, how was I supposed to 'find a way for us to be together'?

I gave Grammas a glare.

"You _lied_ to me! How could you _do_ such a thing?"

Grammas grinned.

"Years of practice. So, how do you think you feel about Mike?"

"None of your business."

But my tone was soft.

She had one more card up her sleeve though.

"Have you told him you're pregnant?"

TBC


	20. Chapter 20

Disclaimer: Foyle's War is a copyright product and does not belong to me. Character's used for entertainment only, no infringement is intended. Original characters of my own invention also included.

Author: hazeleyes57

Title: What Will Be, ch 20

Rating: T or 14+

A/N: 'Wazzock' = British slang from the North of the UK, as used by comedian Mike Harding (though he states he didn't invent the word), meaning a stupid or annoying person – an idiot.

What Will Be – chapter 20

Present Day.

Feeling at a distinct disadvantage lying on the floor, I crawled on to my squishy sofa, dragging the throw after me. I didn't see any point to lying to Grammas; I had no intention of getting rid of the baby or hiding its presence. I simply hadn't found the right time to tell Mike.

I sighed.

"I haven't given Mike my new address. In fact, I haven't told him I've moved either."

Grammas didn't say 'Oh, Lily, how could you?' but with her expressive face you didn't need to hear the words. I felt mean. Grr. When did this stop being fun?

She didn't stay too much longer after having some coffee and giving me a lecturette about talking to Mike. All well and good, except she wasn't privy to all the facts and that made speaking to Mike a little problematic for me. I pulled the throw up under my chin and got comfortable. I needed to think.

The next thing I knew, I'd woken up with no idea where I was for a moment. Disorientated, I wondered what had disturbed me.

The wonderfully old-fashioned door knocker clattered, and obviously not for the first time.

Still drowsy, I half-staggered out into the hall and opened the door.

"Lily."

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was anyway. With the memory of his apparent 'death' still quite fresh in my mind, I was pathetically grateful to see him alive and mostly well, standing on my top step.

"Mike."

He didn't look like he'd slept very much, but the tousled 'I'd rather be in bed' look suited him. I knew I was staring. He gave me that sad half-smile.

"May I come in?"

I stepped back and opened the door, a tacit invitation that was accepted.

We stood awkwardly in the hall.

"You moved without telling me."

I nodded, miserable.

"You said you need space and time to think. I gave you both."

I nodded again.

"How do you think this makes me feel?"

_Almost as bad as I do._

I shrugged one shoulder with embarrassment, a lump in my throat. I knew my words would be inadequate, but I tried anyway.

"You did what I asked, but it was time for me to follow my...dream."

It sounded mad to me, so it must have to Mike.

He looked exasperated.

"_Your_ dream? To move _here _of all places?"

"Why not?"

I turned towards the front room and was thankful when Mike followed. I took my spot of the sofa but he remained standing as he looked around the room. His hands on his hips, he was frowning, but seemed distracted.

He turned back to me.

"You know 'why not' – we're not supposed to visit the 'past' haunts, let alone move into them."

I shrugged. I had a feeling I was going to be cut some slack in that department, but I'd worry about it later.

"How did you find me?"

"It wasn't that difficult. Give you due credit though; the penny didn't drop until after we were talking about flower baby names. This house is looked after by the _Lerion_ Trust. Suspiciously like _Leirion,_ the Greek word for a Lily."

"Ah."

Mike looked me up and down. I had the feeling that he could see right through me. I didn't know if was hormones or proximity, but it was hot and I _still _wanted him so bad it was _good._

_Sparkage!_

I could feel myself trembling and folded my arms in an attempt to hide it. I gave him my 'cocky' grin. _Look at me, I don't care at all._

Mike shook his head.

"Give it up, Lily."

He frowned again, reconsidering.

"No, that's not true. I don't want you to give up or give in, or any other surrender stuff, I love you just the way you are. I'd like to live, love, fight and make up with you for the rest of my life."

My stomach went into free-fall.

_Frack. That sounds like another proposal._

My heart and gut were both screaming '_yes!' _at the top of their non-voices, but my brain was being a pain in the ass.

I was no longer the sole tenant of my own body.

September 1947

"May I drive? For old times sake?"

Foyle halted at the passenger's door of his car, which he had been about to open for Sam and looked askance at her.

"Well, um, I don't know. Do I have to sit in the back for old times sake?"

Sam's smile was his reward as she shook her head.

"Not unless you want to; I'd far rather have you in the front where I can get hold of you."

"Hmm."

As a consequence that Foyle should have anticipated, the increase in Sam's confidence in her own sexual appeal since their 'interlude' yesterday afternoon had been quite marked. It wasn't his imagination that supplied the subtle undertone to his fiancée's conversation.

Just as it wasn't his imagination last night when he had walked her home. She had invited him in for 'five minutes', in order to say goodnight. Their ardour, in both their eyes, thankfully, was not for public consumption, and Sam's warm 'goodnight' was warmer than usual, leaving him decidedly hot under the collar. He felt like a randy schoolboy and it left him somewhat unsettled. The wedding could not come quickly enough for either of them.

"Perhaps I _should_ sit in the back, if I'm going to be too much of a distraction. Wouldn't want to have an accident, would we?"

Sam's smile widened to a grin.

"Absolutely not..."

Foyle rounded the car to the driver's door just in time to hear her _sotto voce _caveat;

"...although with only three days to the wedding, I don't think anyone would be able to tell."

Foyle stopped dead and looked at her. An eyebrow rose as he opened the door.

"You are incorrigible. What have I unleashed?"

He got a cheeky grin.

"Not long to find out."

Sam slipped into the driver's seat with the ease of long practice and Foyle returned to the passenger side.

"Dreadful woman."

But Sam heard the amused pride in his tone and they were both smiling as they set off for the Vicarage.

Present Day

"It's Foyle, isn't it?"

I pulled the throw up to my chin. Sort of a security blanket.

"What?"

"That's why you moved here. You're in love with him. You got involved. Just as I knew you would."

_It's not that simple._

Mike didn't sound annoyed; his tone was more resigned than anything else.

I had a light bulb moment.

I recalled the expression on Mike's face when I set out on my assignment. The underlying sadness.

"That's the real truth, isn't it? You _did _know I'd fall for Chris. You knew before I left; before _I_ knew."

Mike's shoulders slumped with defeated acceptance that the cat was out of the bag. He knew I'd not leave it alone.

"I didn't know, but I guessed, as I told you before. Too many things didn't add up."

I felt a shiver run through me.

_Too many things didn't add up._

God, how we dreaded those findings in any of our research. Temporal Correction was a minefield. One misstep and kablooie, we're screwed.

I felt faint again. Under the throw my hand slid over my tum. What if there was another ripple of change? I had more to lose now.

Mike was there in an instant.

"You're as white as a sheet. Do you need a drink of water or something?"

I nodded, feeling queasy.

He was only gone a few moments before he was back beside me with a glass of water. I took a few restorative sips and began to feel a little better.

Something niggled in my brain, but I was too fuzzy to connect the dots at that moment. It was only later when I remembered how quick he had been to the kitchen and back.

How had he known where the kitchen was? And how did he know where the drinking glasses were kept?

But I didn't think of that at the time. All I could think about was Mike seated beside me and how much I wanted him to hold me and tell me that everything would be okay. But I couldn't ask that of him, it would be a terrible tease.

There again I underestimated his preternatural instincts where I was concerned. He lifted the arm closest to me.

"C'mon kiddo, scoot."

I scooted. His arm dropped around me and I felt myself relax against his chest. The solid _thump thump_ of his heartbeat under my ear was comforting and the knot of tension I hadn't realised was there in my stomach started to relax.

After several quiet minutes I realised something that I should have admitted to myself before now.

I even liked doing _nothing_ so long as it was with Mike.

It was only my fearful pride that kept me away from this amazing, sexy man. Fearful, because he was only the second man to properly get under my skin and 'get' why I pushed people away. You can't be dumped if you dump them first. Pride; in that I had done the wrong thing in moving away and not telling him. I was a coward and I ran. I wasn't brave enough to let someone else into my heart.

Someone _else_ into my heart.

I stiffened.

Of course Mike felt it immediately.

"What is it?"

Start with the truth and stick with it.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Everything. Running away, being a wazzock, not appreciating what I had when I had it. I should have at least tried to explain."

Mike shrugged, but offered no comment. I found it oddly encouraging.

"Was that thing about 'the rest of my life' some sort of a suggestion about our future?"

I felt the rumble of laughter under my hands.

"It was not a _suggestion _Lily, it was a heartfelt comment about my position. I wanted to marry you before you left. I asked you more than once, if I recall correctly."

_Wanted; past tense._

"Do you still...?"

No, I still have some pride left.

I sat up and faced Mike. I needed to see his honest reaction.

"I've got to tell you something before I can think of anything else, including my future."

_No fanfare, no drum roll, just get on with it._

"I'm pregnant..."

_Go on, rip off the rest of the plaster._

"...but it's not your baby."

September 5th 1947

Foyle's drive to Lyminster had been very pleasant and without incident. Iain Stewart had met him at The Six Bells, a local public house named after the six bell peal that his church was famous for, and the two men enjoyed a hospitable drink. The two-story flint building had a couple of rooms available to people needing a short stopover on their journey, and Iain had booked one in Foyle's name so that he had somewhere to get ready for the following day's nuptials without risk of bumping into Sam on the landing. It was typical of the Vicar's thoughtfulness.

Foyle returned with his future father-in-law to the Vicarage, where he was greeted very cordially by Sam's mother. She smiled and apologised for her daughter's absence, explaining that Samantha had taken Bertie for his walk and was due back at any moment. As the late afternoon was still warm they retreated to the rear garden where a table had already been laid out with what looked like a fruit punch, tartlets and small buns.

Just as he had taken a bite of a rather delicious lemon tartlet, Sam came round the side of the house with Bertie. Foyle stood up to meet her, pleased to see the way her face lit up as she registered his presence. Very mindful of her parent's proximity, he wondered how he should greet her. Sam had no such hesitation and strode straight over to give him a hug and a brief but heartfelt kiss on his lips.

"Mmm, lemony, yum. So glad you made it down here all right. Good journey? Wasn't far, not too much bother I hope. Is the room at the Six Bells nice? Father thought you'd appreciate the peace and quite away from the womenfolk on your last morning of freedom. Come and meet Bertie, he's such a dear."

No response seemed to be required by Foyle as Sam dragged him by the hand over to where the dog was trying to remain in the shade of the house.

Bertie, as it turned out, was a rather overweight pug. His tongue lolled out as he panted, trying to keep cool. He sniffed at the hand offered to him, but that was all he appeared to have the energy for. His expression seemed to Foyle to be begging him not to offer to take him for another walk.

While kneeling beside the crouching Foyle, Sam looked him in the eyes. Her voice was quiet and private.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too. Far too quiet."

Sam smiled as they both got up. As they turned back to the table, Sam hissed.

"Watch out for the drink, it's actually Pimms. Mother tells Father it's fruit cordial so he doesn't worry about alcohol on the premises."

Foyle dipped his head and smiled.

"Understood."

After a convivial tea, Mrs Stewart shooed the couple off to their own devices for an hour while she put the finishing touches to the evening meal, suggesting, without a hint of duplicity, that perhaps they would like to go for a walk to work up an appetite?

As it was likely that this was the only time that the two of them would have to be alone together until tomorrow night, both Sam and Foyle agreed that a walk sounded just the ticket and vanished up the lane before Iain Stewart could suggest cribbage instead.

The Present

The silence after my stark announcement seemed to me to last an eternity.

"Please say _something."_

Mike didn't leap up off the sofa, he didn't withdraw, he didn't even look terribly surprised.

"What do you want me to say?"

This wasn't quite the reaction I was expecting.

"I don't know."

_Please tell me it doesn't make any difference to how you used to feel about me._

"I guessed this might happen after you freaked about the implant. I just figured this conversation would be in a few weeks time, with a slightly different father."

"Oh."

Mike looked at me. I mean, _really_ looked at me, like he was searching for answers too.

"How do you feel about it?"

_Terrified. Thrilled. Nauseous._

"I'm not getting rid of it, if that's what you mean."

Mike was already shaking his head.

"God, no, that's not what I meant at all. I mean, does it make a difference to us? Would it make a difference if you could be with the baby's father?"

_I was afraid to hope, I knew that much._

"If you mean, would I change what happened if I could? No, I can honestly say that I wouldn't change a thing. If I hadn't fallen for him, I wouldn't have let myself fall in love with you. No him, no you. He showed me what it meant to take a chance with my heart, and looking back, I think that it was mutual. We both learned to let love in."

"You loved him?"

We both knew who we were talking about.

I pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged my legs. I used to do it when I was little, it felt comforting.

"Yes, I probably did."

I looked at Mike.

"But not in the same way that I love _you_. If you were both here, now, I can honestly say that I would pick you."

I suddenly realised that I meant every word of what I had said. Chris was my past, Mike was my future. At least, I certainly hoped he was. I felt a surge of confidence straighten my spine. I plonked my feet on the floor and stood up. For no apparent reason I thought of Sam. I felt, yes, _tickety-boo._

"But, you know what, Mike? I don't _have_ to pick either of you. I'll get by on my own if I have to. I have a large family and a great grandmother who is looking forward to being a great great grandmother."

Mike looked surprised as I tugged him to his feet.

"What you need to decide is whether or not you want to be with _me. _And what I mean by 'me' is me and _my_ child."

I got him to the front door and opened it. Looking like he was on auto pilot, he moved past me and turned back at the top step.

I knew I was risking everything by chucking him out, but if I didn't do it, we would both wonder, and that would ultimately bring us down. Better to cut my losses now, even if it would break my heart.

He opened his mouth to speak, but I was on a roll.

"Just one more thing. Turns out I'm more 'old fashioned' than I thought. If we get together, I'd like to be married, and if it's at all possible, I'd like to marry in Lyminster."

I don't know where that thought had come from, but it felt right. I gave Mike a genuine smile.

"Take care. Be well."

I shut the door and leaned back on it, suddenly exhausted.

I guess Mike's mother was right. What will be, will be.

TBC.


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: Foyle's war is a copyright product, and sadly it doesn't belong to me. Characters and settings used for entertainment purposes only, no infringement sought or intended.

Author: hazeleyes57

Title: What Will Be, chapter 21

Rating: 17+ or T+

Thought this was the end, but the slippery devils got away again. Probably the penultimate chapter.

What Will Be Chapter 21

September 5th 1947

Having already said his farewells to Sam's parents, Christopher Foyle was tactfully left alone in the hall with Sam to say goodnight to her. With a grin towards the closed sitting room door, Sam tugged at Foyle's hand, pulling him towards the front door. Once outside in the unlit porch, she smiled at her husband-to-be, who took the hint and pulled her gently into his arms. He could feel the fine tremor of her body as she moulded herself to him.

"Are you still nervous about tomorrow?"

Foyle could just make out her smile in the darkness.

"No. Very excited. Can't wait. Would probably run off with you now if you asked, though."

"I expect there would be a bit of a fuss."

"Gosh, I'll say. But Uncle Aubrey would calm everyone down with the threat of handing out his pea pod wine."

Foyle gave a soft laugh, remembering the awful concoction.

"Yes, that would do it."

"Are you nervous?"

Foyle gave the idea genuine consideration.

"Nno, I'm fairly sure not. The only thought that has given me any pause is the fact that I'm so much -"

Sam's fingers touched his lips.

"If you say 'older than you' I shall be very annoyed. You may finish the sentence with the words 'more experienced' or 'more worldly' or 'more knowledgeable'."

Sam could feel his laughter through her slight frame and was pleased to have amused him.

"Very well, I concede to 'more experienced', if I must."

Sam held him tighter.

"For which I am grateful."

"Mmm."

Foyle sighed with real regret.

"I'd better go before your father appears."

Sam sighed heavily.

"If you must. See you tomorrow then, eleven o'clock sharp. Now please kiss me as if you'll miss me, to keep me going until tomorrow."

As all wise and happily married men already know, it is sensible to do as they are bid, wherever possible.

He kissed her.

She kissed him right back.

A minute turned into two. Then three.

Foyle broke off when he felt Sam's hand steal from his waist to the small of his back and tug at his shirt.

"Now I really do have to go."

He hardly recognised his own voice, let alone her breathless reply.

"Oh, _must_ you?"

"I'm sure you are aware that it's not what I wish either, but I have no desire -"

Sam boldly proved him mistaken.

"Oh, really?"

Foyle coughed as he expertly fielded her hand with fond familiarity.

"I have _no _desire to be caught like thisby either of your parents."

Sam sobered and reluctantly eased away from him.

"Yes, you're quite correct. Are you _absolutely _sure you don't want to run off with me tonight?"

"Mmm, it is tempting..."

Foyle picked up his hat from where it had fallen to the ground. He dusted it, and set it on his head. He hadn't even noticed it drop from his hand, testament, if any were needed, that this woman was a powerful distraction. He wondered briefly if he would get much sleep tonight.

"...but, no. Tomorrow, eleven sharp, _Miss Stewart._"

Moonlight glinted on her teeth.

"Not for too much longer."

_Thank Heavens._

The Present.

A few minutes after I'd closed the door on Mike, I was still leaning against it when the knocker rattled. I felt the vibration through my spine before I could push myself upright.

The last thing I wanted was company. I hesitated with my hand on the lock. There was only one person I wanted to see on the other side of the door and it wouldn't be _him._

I supposed I could go upstairs and pretend that I hadn't heard anything...

The knocker rat-tatted again and curiosity got the better of me. I took a breath, braced myself to repel all boarders, and opened the door.

Mike stood on the top step.

All the air in my lungs whooshed out again, so all I could manage was a small "Oh."

"I've done as you asked, and I've thought about it. May I come in? Thank you."

He stepped around my stunned self and closed the door behind him. He guided me back to the kitchen and seated me at the table. He looked around the kitchen for the kettle and after having found it empty, he filled it with fresh water and switched it on.

"I noticed earlier that the Trust has not changed a great deal over the years, it still looks very...authentic."

I finally recovered my voice.

"It's not. It's clever modernization."

I remembered to be cross.

"You can't just waltz in here and make yourself at home."

_Even if you do look the part._

Mike parked a thigh on the corner of the table, folded his arms and leaned over to me.

"I didn't; you let me in, remember? Still, I'm here now, and you look like you could do with something to eat and a drink. Tea, I assume? No coffee; too much caffeine, bad for the baby."

I scowled at him, annoyed at his take-charge attitude.

_He doesn't need to know that coffee makes me puke._

"Tea's fine, as you're bothering. I'm not hungry."

My stomach gurgled loudly.

Mike lifted one eyebrow and managed to convey 'oh, really?' without uttering a word.

I was my usual gracious self.

"Oh, fine then, a cheese sarni will do. _Thanks_."

"Which is kept..?"

"In the pantry, it's..."

Before I could point to the door, Mike had already turned in its direction. He was back in seconds, loaded with bread, cheese, greenery; everything he required, he had found.

"That's refrigerated now. I see what you mean about clever modernization. Although the place has been updated as the years have passed – I suppose it had to with being available for letting – it still looks...authentic. It's odd, 'cos it looks modern, but it's still recognizably the place it once was."

He flung together two sandwiches – cheese salad, just how I like it – and passed one of them to me on a plate from the rack. His easy familiarity with the kitchen shouldn't have surprised me, but it did. When we weren't having fantastic sex, he'd kept me well fed back at my old place, so I knew that he was comfortable in any kitchen, but something was ticking on my radar.

After I was fed and watered, neither of which I honestly tasted, as I was anxious to find out what he had been thinking about, especially as he'd had only about two minutes worth on the doorstep.

I opened my mouth, but Mike held up one finger.

"One second, I just need to test the plumbing. Back in a tick."

Moments later I heard him running up the stairs and two minutes after that, the rumble of returning feet.

"You found it all right then?"

"Oh, yeah. Right where I expected it to be."

I felt a shiver go right through me.

I rubbed my arms.

"You okay?"

I smiled.

"Yeah, just a ghost going over my grave."

As I looked at Mike seated opposite me at the table, I remembered sitting in this same room with Chris. It was creeping me out, this uncanny knack of knowing where everything was, until a thought popped into my head. I'll bet that he – Mike, that is - took the tour of the house when the Trust were looking after it. Simple explanation; I should stop imagining things.

"Right, now, I've been thinking, as you suggested -."

I scoffed - rudely, if the truth be told.

"Yeah, for two minutes!"

He stood up and rounded the table, before crouching beside me.

"Two minutes can be forever, given the right motivation. I have decided to take you up on your kind offer."

Ha! I didn't think he'd go for...hang on..._accept my offer?_

"What?"

Mike smirked.

"It's quite simple. I've decided that I _do_ want to be with you and _our_ baby."

Mike took my cold hands in his and I could feel the warmth steal back into me. But how could I trust what I heard after only a couple of minutes consideration? Couldn't he change his mind again equally quickly?

"But it's not your baby."

Mike shook his head.

"Yes, it is, in every way that counts. I'll be his or her father; I'll be here for the first teeth, the first words, the first steps, the first anything-there-is, because I love you, and the baby is part of you."

I was in tears before he'd even got to the 'first steps' bit. I so wanted to believe him, because he was saying just what I needed to hear.

"But..."

"No buts. No ifs or maybes. I want my name down on the birth certificate too; if you have any idea what TPTB would say about the biological father, well, I can tell you, the paperwork would be catastrophic. Much simpler this way."

"You want me to lie about the baby's father?"

Mike grinned.

"It's not a lie to keep the truth to oneself."

I rolled my eyes.

"So, I can let everyone assume that we've been having a relationship for ages?"

"Well, I was thinking that would work. Y'know, cracking the Ice Queen is a feather in my cap. The chicks dig a successful hunter, even if they don't admit it. They'll think I have something very special to melt you, and they'll want a piece of it."

My blood pressure shot up, I'm sure.

"Oh, _really?"_

Mike laughed.

"Yes, it's true, but no, I won't be taking them up on it. Call me old fashioned, but once I'm married, that's it, no more burgers when I have steak at home."

"Married?"

The tears ran harder.

"You'll notice that I'm now kneeling. I don't have a ring for you, because I want you to pick one out when we shop together. You'll have to let me know how much to spend so that I'm seen neither as a cheapskate or spendthrift. I want it to be perfect."

"Why?"

"Why? Because you're perfect _for me."_

"No, I'm not. How could you decide in only two minutes? I'm -"

Mike gently placed his fingers on my lips to shush me. He climbed to his feet and pulled me up with him. He pulled a letter out of his pocket; a real, _bone fide_ expensive, piece of paper.

"Lily, I love you. I can't look into your eyes without feeling that _longing _that you only read about in soppy romances. I can barely talk to you without wanting to express my love for you and everything you are in every way that I can. I want you, Lily, in the worst way. So badly that it's _great."_

Mike handed me the letter.

"This is an application for Banns to be read in the Church of St Mary Magdalene in Lyminster. I've already filled it all in - a week ago, actually - all you need to do is sign it at the bottom."

Mike wiped my tears away with his thumbs as he cradled my face. My heart was fit to burst out of my chest.

"Marry me Lily, because I can't breathe without _you."_

TBC.


	22. Chapter 22

Disclaimer: Foyle's war is a copyright product, characters and settings used for entertainment only, no infringement intended. Certain original characters included are of my own invention.

Author: hazeleyes57

Rating: 18, some mature themes and a bit of swearing. Sam/Foyle 'ship, so quit while you're ahead if that's not your thing.

A/N: This was _really_ meant to be the last, but the chapter is so big, I've split it.

What Will Be – Chapter 22

September 6th 1947

St Mary Magdalene was a large church, even by Sussex standards. Dating back to before the Norman Conquest, the nave was the former parish church and what is now the chancel was the Nun's church. The nave dated from around 1040 and was the most striking feature; it was tall, narrow and dramatic. The current incumbent, Sam's father, was happy to point out the Early English lancets, the circular sexfoil windows, said to date from 1260 and the original Saxon door which was no longer used and had been blocked off, to anyone who lingered long enough to listen. Later indications of Norman influences were also highlighted, as were the 15th Century additions and replacements right down the ages to the Victorians installing the large south lancet window. Iain Stewart was proud of the history of the church and it showed.

As his daughter's nuptials were to be the second wedding service of the day, Iain Stewart did not need to return to the Vicarage for any other reason than a cup of tea and a biscuit, both of which held great appeal at this moment. He looked at his watch; ten o'clock, plenty of time for tea. Presumably, his wife and daughter were in the last minute throws of calm preparation. Or possibly not, but that was his wife's area of expertise.

With an hour still to go, there were no guests milling around yet, so Iain Stewart was surprised to see Christopher Foyle strolling up the lane to the church. They met and exchanged pleasantries.

"You're a little early, I'm afraid."

"No matter. The weather is so clement that I thought I'd come over early and have a look around. I'm meeting Andrew and his fiancee here at ten forty-five, so no-one will miss me at the pub. Paul and Edith Milner are coming up with them, so they'll also be brought straight here."

"Lovely. It will be nice to meet them again. Samantha tells me they keep in touch from time to time. Didn't they have a child? A daughter, I believe?"

"Yes, Clementine. She'll be two and a half in November."

How could he forget her arrival? Or Sam's hurt expression when she had thought that he 'never needed her' after he drove the Milner's to the hospital?

_Ah, Sam, my dear Sam. You were – and are - always needed._

Foyle looked at his watch. Reverend Stewart reconsidered his desire for tea over the thought of facing the busy womenfolk likely to be buzzing around the Vicarage. His wife's two sisters were also there. Aubrey too, of course, as he had been delighted to be asked to give Samantha away as her father couldn't be in two places at once.

The Vicar's footsteps halted.

He rather suspected that he'd be in the way over at the Vicarage. Best not to risk it.

"I have a kettle and the makings for tea in my church office, if you would care for a cup?"

"That would be splendid, thank you."

The vestibule of the church was warm and close. It smelled of beeswax and old paper and gave Foyle a sense of great age and sober reflection. He wondered just how many men had waited here for their brides; how many had gone on to have satisfying lives, and how many had been left devastated or, conversely, relieved by the failure of the bride to appear.

The two men were still there talking when Andrew and Paul came looking for them some time later. Foyle greeted them with pleasure, and they all shook hands.

"You made good time, glad you could make it. How are the ladies?"

Paul smiled.

"Edith is outside with Clementine. Edith prefers the fresh air at the moment, and Clemmie simply loves to run."

Andrew was also smiling.

"Emma's outside talking to Edith. Assorted wedding talk from what I overheard. I left them to it."

"Sensible man."

Iain Stewart's dry observation left them all amused as they made their way out into the body of the church. Guests were beginning to file into the pews, directed to the Bride or the Groom's side by one of the ushers. The generally hushed hubbub quietened further when the vicar appeared, but returned to its previous level when it was clear that the vicar wasn't about to start the service.

Rationing was still governing the availability of clothing, but it was obvious that everyone was in their Sunday best, and had made every effort to look as smart as possible.

Andrew had brought a camera with him, a Kodak Brownie Reflex that he was entrusting to Paul Milner for the duration of the service. The two men had their heads together, going over how the camera worked so that there would be 'casual' pictures to remember the day as well as the official ones. Emma leaned over to Edith and whispered conspiratorially.

"They do so love their toys, mmm?"

Edith smiled and nodded. Clemmie was kneeling on the pew and faced backwards in order to look at the people seated behind her. Her curiosity was lively, but the couple didn't seem to mind.

Christopher Foyle felt both involved and removed as he waited at the front pew for his last few moments as a single man and a widower to tick away. He felt involved when a few of the guests caught his eye and smiled while they too waited, but he also felt remote and insulated from everything, as if there was a fine bubble between him and the rest of the world. He felt calm, though not entirely relaxed. He wouldn't relax until knew for sure that Sam had arrived. He glanced at his watch. Two minutes. Reverend Stewart took his place and smiled benevolently at the congregation. Foyle realised he'd better get Andrew's attention.

Andrew was also keeping an eye on the time so he was ready for his father's raised eyebrow summons when it came. He joined his father at the first pew and the two men looked each other over.

"Have you got the rings?"

Andrew patted his pockets.

"Um, I think so."

"_Andrew..."_

His son grinned as he produced the matched wedding rings.

"Have some faith Dad, after all, this is the place for it."

"Very amusing, I'm sure. I'll remind you of this later."

Andrew gave him a wide smile. It was a 'man to man' smile, not in the least the kind a son gives his father.

"I rather suspect you'll be busy later."

He was spared his startled father's response to that little gem by the sudden cessation of the organ music that had been playing in the background.

Following a brief anticipatory hush, the organ burst into The Prince of Denmark's Arrival, perhaps better known by most as The Trumpet Voluntary. Sam's choice of music was writ large upon the service and Foyle was glad it was so; Wagner's Bridal Chorus was forever ruined for him; it was invariably corrupted in his head to 'Here comes the bride, all fat and wide' and that didn't fill him with the appropriate mood of joyful solemnity that he felt should set the tone of a wedding.

Moments later all thoughts of musical appreciation were wiped from Foyle's mind when he first caught sight of Sam.

Time seemed to stand still; the breath held in his throat. A wave of tenderness swept through him and he felt very moved. He made a mental vow to remind himself of this moment and this feeling as often as he could.

Sam – _Samantha _- was exquisite.

Afterward Foyle would admit – although only to himself - that he couldn't recall any details of the dress that Sam wore as she drifted gracefully towards him on the arm of her uncle Aubrey. The photographs would later do justice to the nip-waisted oyster silk, but all he could think was that Sam looked a vision of loveliness. The veil was not full, nor was it thick enough to obscure her features; he could see her smile and her beautiful dark eyes. His own lips curved unconsciously in welcome and Sam admitted later that she lost any last vestige of nerves at that moment, leaving her relaxed enough to fully engage in the service.

Reverend Stewart had conducted a large number of weddings during his vocation, and although all had held significance for him, this was the most important one he would ever conduct. Although he had to sacrifice the pleasure of accompanying Samantha up the aisle, it was worth it to be able to see her arrival. Her luminous joy and her serenity in the company of the man she loved was obvious to everyone, especially after her veil was lifted with the help of her bridesmaid.

Full in his heart, he was utterly sincere when he began the service...

"_Dearly Beloved_, we are gathered here in the sight of God and in the presence of these witnesses to join together this man, Christopher Foyle and this woman, Samantha Jane Stewart in Holy Matrimony, which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man's innocence signifying to us the mystical union which is between Christ and His Church..."

It seemed only moments later to Sam that her father turned to Christopher and asked the question that she had heard so many a time as a child. Never before had it felt so full of significance_._

"Do you, Christopher, take Samantha Jane to be your wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy state of matrimony; will you love her, honour her and keep her, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto her, so long as you both shall live?"

Foyle was looking at Sam. He could see the love in her eyes as she, bold and charming as ever, stared straight back.

"I will."

Sam didn't take her gaze from her soon-to-be husband, even when her father turned towards her.

"Do you, Samantha Jane, take Christopher to be your wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy state of matrimony: will you love him, honour him, and keep him, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto him, so long as you both shall live?"

She didn't hesitate.

"I will."

Andrew stepped forward with the two gold bands and placed them in the centre of Reverend Stewart's bible.

The vicar faced the couple.

"Heavenly Father, by your blessing let these rings be to Samantha and Christopher a symbol of unending love and faithfulness to remind them of the vow and the covenant which they have made this day: through Jesus Christ our Lord."

A strong 'Amen' came from the congregation.

Foyle took the smaller of the two rings from the bible and place the ring on Sam's fourth finger. He held it in place as he repeated after Reverend Stewart.

"Samantha Jane, I give you this ring as a sign of our marriage. With my body I honour you, all that I am I give to you, and all that I have I share with you, within the love of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit."

Sam took the remaining ring and slid it onto the fourth finger of Foyle's left hand. She held it in place as she followed her father's lead.

"Christopher, I give you this ring as a sign of our marriage. With my body I honour you..."

She involuntarily shivered with anticipation and hoped her groom didn't think that it was nerves.

"...all that I am I give to you..."

_As soon as decently possible, please!_

"...and all that I have I share with you. Within the love of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit."

Sam couldn't help the relieved grin she gave Foyle. He smiled back with understanding.

Reverend Iain Stewart addressed the congregation.

"In the presence of God, and before this congregation, Samantha and Christopher have given their consent and made their vows to each other. They have declared their marriage by the joining of hands and by the giving and receiving of rings. I therefore proclaim that they are husband and wife."

He joined Sam and Foyle's right hands together.

"Those whom God has joined together let no man put asunder."

Sam felt a sudden shift in her sense of being. It startled her, very briefly, but it was, as she described later in her diary, a very spiritual moment, almost as if 'someone' up there had patted her on the head with approval. It was bizarre but wonderfully warm.

Foyle had sensed her momentary distraction, but he was reassured by the squeeze of her hand.

Reverend Stewart was prepared for this moment of uncertainty and gently prompted his new son-in-law.

"You may kiss the bride."

"Oh yes, _rather!"_

The congregation chuckled at Sam's heartfelt endorsement before she was gathered into her husband's embrace, where their first kiss as man and wife was demure but tender.

At least Sam certainly hoped no-one else was aware of the heat that she could feel.

The new husband and his blushing bride turned to face their family and friends, who were smiling in approval.

Andrew shook his father's hand and gave Sam a peck on the cheek under his father's watchful eye. Reverend Stewart gave his daughter a hug and shook Foyle by the hand; there may have been a few shiny eyes, but only Sam's mother had actually cried.

Reverend Stewart guided the service gently back on track with the Blessing of the Marriage and then ushered the couple off for the registration business while the assembled congregation listened to the choir sing 'Jesu, Joy of man's desiring'.

The remainder of the service both passed without incident, and soon the newlyweds were leaving the church to the triumphant chords of Mendelssohn's Wedding March from 'A Midsummer night's Dream'. Rice and rose petals greeted the newlyweds as they emerged into the sunshine.

It was, as Sam described it later, all rather wonderful.

Present Day - September

"Ready?"

I turned from my inspection in the long mirror and grinned at Grammas. She was looking particularly lovely in a smart dress/coat combo in a soft lilac that set her colouring off a treat. Mum was downstairs having her 'vapours' calmed by dad.

"As I'll ever be. Do you think he'll approve?"

I pulled a silly face.

Grammas rolled her eyes.

"Only if you don't look at him as if you're mad. I think he'd still love you though, even then. Poor soul is clearly besotted." She smiled and added, "You look simply divine darling, absolutely glowing."

_My wedding. Never thought I'd hear those words about me. _

As you probably guessed, I did sign the Banns form, albeit with a somewhat shaky hand. Mike kissed me breathless after tucking the paper safely away. He then picked me up, chest to breast style and swung me around in a full circle while I hung onto his head. Luckily he caught me in a not horribly nauseous moment, or the romance would have taken a prosaic turn with a mop and bucket.

I looked back in the mirror for a last peek.

You could call it ageless, if you picked a style from so long ago. It wasn't white, but then I wasn't a virgin. I picked the softer, more flattering oyster silk that suited my colouring better, especially now that I had my original hair colour restored. I liked the black when I had it, but it was time to move on and I was ready. More sure of myself, more able to believe in me...and the future.

I had chosen flowers for the headdress coronet and the veil, a froth of obedient net was clipped beneath it at the back so that I wouldn't have to move the flowers when I got to the church. The medieval-style dress was wide at the neck, showing off my shoulders, but had fitted sleeves to the elbow, where they widened tulip-shaped to the wrist. In a nod to practicality the front more or less fell from the bust to the floor to give junior a bit of leg room. Not too shabby if I say so myself.

I picked up the bouquet of flowers that were a grander version of the headdress, tied together with white silk ribbon. They felt solid and reassuring in my hand and smelled so fragrant.

The hotel staircase was large enough to allow people to pass me if they needed to, but most stopped and smiled as I descended. I didn't know them, but it was nice.

Once downstairs the troops rallied. Grammas and mum went off in one car, Dad and I followed in the last car, a few minutes after the rest had left. I felt calm, serene almost to the point of detachment, while I was driven to the Church of St Mary Magdalene in Lyminster. I thought of Christopher. I thought about the baby. I hoped that Sam was as happy as her diaries had intimated. I thought of Mike and what would happen if he died and I realised why Sam never remarried after...

_Don't think about that. They are alive in the past, only a short trip away._

I blinked away the threatening tears so my face wouldn't be blotchy. Fracking hormones had me all over the place emotionally.

My dad took my hand.

"Are you all right? No last minute change of heart?"

"Yes, I'm fine and no, no change of heart. He's the one."

"I know. I'm just pleased that _you_ know that."

"Sorry it took so long to find him."

"It takes as long as it takes."

I looked at him with fresh respect. He _knew. _No wonder he and mum had stayed together so long.

"Cool."

Fifteen minutes later I stood beside dad at the beginning of the aisle as the church organ jumped enthusiastically into The Trumpet Voluntary. Everyone in the church stood up and although it had been against my better judgement, Mike and Grammas had colluded together to get as many people as possible to our 'small private ceremony'. However, once I clapped eyes on Mike, everything else faded away and it was just me and him. When I reached his side Mike whispered '_You look gorgeous'_ under the cover of the music. Who could resist that?

The vicar smiled benevolently at his packed church and then looked at us. Mike and I had visited him only twice since the Banns went up, but he had a very winning way with him and we'd liked him from the get go.

"Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God and in the presence of these witnesses to join together this man, Christopher Michael O'Neill and this woman, Rose Lily St Just-Carter in Holy Matrimony, which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man's innocence signifying to us the mystical union which is between Christ and His Church..."

_Christopher _Michael_? _He'd kept _that_ quiet.

I glanced at him and he surreptitiously mouthed the word '_Rose?_' with a lifted eyebrow.

Fair point.

I grinned. What's in a name?

It was, if I say so myself, all rather wonderful. Hormones or not, I felt _lifted _when the vicar announced to all that we were man and wife, and Mike's kiss sealed the deal. Magic.

After the rest of the service, the paperwork – real paper – and the 'caps were taken, we walked back down that aisle as so many had done before us and emerged from the cool interior of the church into sunlight and warmth and the good wishes of family and friends. And rice, which, let me tell you, gets _everywhere_, and when you think about its purpose, was already redundant. It's the thought that counts and I was happy enough for six people.

We walked across the grass to the reception hall holding hands and I admired my wedding ring, shiny and new; I brought Mike's hand to my lips and kissed it. He looked at me, smiled and my heart skipped a beat.

I couldn't breathe without him either.

Mike placed our luggage in the hall and came back outside for me. He was grinning as he hoisted me up into his arms and carried me over the threshold. I hung on for dear life but he was more than strong enough for me. Since the wedding yesterday he had...I don't quite know how to describe it, he just seemed more content, like he'd not really been sure I'd go through with it and now that we were married he could relax.

He lowered me to my feet and turned me in his arms.

"Hello, Mrs O'Neill."

"Hello, Mr St Just-Carter-O'Neill."

"Really?"

"No, but it's fun to tease."

"Witch."

Thank goodness he gets my sense of humour. I was happy, I felt well, and I was in the arms of a super-sexy man. What more could I want?

So I kissed him.

Mike returned it with interest and heated caresses-with-intent until I was backed against the door, his knee between mine and his hand up my skirt.

Which is why I was most put out when he stopped.

"_Mike?"_

He was clearly not unaffected by the last few minutes.

"While it would be an amazing experience, as I can already attest, I'd rather not take you up against the wall, in case you do yourself a mischief. Or, indeed, I do you a mischief."

It was sweet, adorable even, but not exactly what I wanted. I cupped my hand to his cheek and he leaned into it, keeping his eyes on mine.

"I'm pregnant, not ill or made of glass. I don't want to be mollycoddled."

"Wouldn't dream of it. While I do intend to christen every room in the house making love to you, some walls may have to wait until later."

"_Every _room? Excellent. I look forward to that. Where and when would you like to start?"

Mike grinned.

"The master bedroom. Right now. You may have a five second head start."

His grin turned lascivious as he started unbuttoning his shirt. My mouth was suddenly dry and my fuzzy brain scrabbled to catch up.

"Five..?"

"_One..."_

Two more buttons popped open.

"..._two.._.

My already simmering libido kicked into a higher gear as another couple of buttons popped, revealing a tanned and pleasantly fuzzed torso.

I turned and quickly ran up the stairs, a big grin on my face. I hurtled into the bedroom and flung the covers off the bed. I heard Mike's countdown rapidly progressed to _'five' –_ I think he cheated but I honestly didn't care.

"..._coming, ready or not!"_

Oh, I sincerely hope so.

I had only managed to kick off my shoes and have my top halfway up my arms when Mike barrelled through the open doorway.

We froze for an instant, each taking the other in.

Mike's grin turned feral. He pulled his shirt off in one go – some of the buttons were still done up – and chucked it aside. Without taking his eyes off me, he shucked his trousers at the same time as he kicked off his footwear. I was still poised when he advanced on me, naked and horny.

He quickly finished removing my shirt and dropped it.

I got a quick kiss for good behaviour.

"You are..."

My skirt followed the top to the floor.

Another kiss.

"...way too dressed..."

Another kiss, this time my neck.

Gods, but this was _hot._ He had such a way of making me feel alive and sexy and incredibly desired, even when I felt self-conscious about my baby bump, all too visible now that I was nearly naked.

Mike didn't give the impression that he found me in any way lacking.

"...for what I've been dying to do to you..."

He reached behind me, kissing the other side of my neck at the same time.

"...from the second I found you again."

My bra hit the deck.

Mike's sucked-in breath and groan told me more than words ever could.

He looked me up and down as I stood there in just my knickers and the expression on his face made me think of a starving man confronted by a table of plenty. He didn't know where to start.

I licked my dry lips and Mike's eyes went straight to my mouth.

The next second we were in each other's arms, kissing with abandon. I felt shivery but hot and Mike's skin seemed almost to singe my fingertips. His mouth burned where it touched, but it was deliciously arousing. I couldn't wait to feel that heat on my breasts.

It was a measure of how closely attuned we are, that in the moment I had that thought, Mike bent and took me in his mouth.

"_Oh!"_

I clasped my arms around his shoulders as I fell against him, trying to support myself when my legs wobbled.

"Hold that thought, babe."

He walked me backwards until my legs hit the edge of the bed, and I scrabbled to get my bum on it before I fell over. I propped myself up on my elbows the better to watch Mike as he leaned over me and hooked his fingers into the sides of my knickers.

"I love these on you..."

He tugged them quickly down my legs.

"...but I love them _off_ even better."

Mike's warm hard body slid on to the bed beside me and I turned to meet his kiss; each one melted into the next until I could barely breathe. When his lips finally released mine, he used them to tease and tantalise every inch of my skin, the caresses scorching a trail wherever they touched, leaving me aroused and begging for more.

At my hips he looked up at me with an appreciative grin.

"I have to say that the red suits you. I do believe it's made you even more feisty."

"That's _titian_ to you, philistine."

"Well, at least the collar and cuffs match now."

I sat up and pushed Mike over on his back. He smirked.

"I love it when you're bossy."

Based on the grin, I'd guess he really didn't mind. I kissed his chest, tasting the salt on his skin, and breathed in the delicious scent of him. I ran my fingertips over his torso and down past his waist, teasing him by skirting his focus of interest and lightly scraping his thighs with my nails. He was so responsive to the light touches and his arousal twitched as if begging for attention. I loved watching him like this; it made me want him even more to see that I affected him this way.

I drew my fingers back towards me along the nearest leg. Mike's hands clenched into the sheet and he sucked in his breath in anticipation; it whooshed out again and he shuddered when I circled his balls with one finger, still avoiding the main event.

I grinned.

"You like?"

"Cock teaser."

"You have no idea."

"Just remember that payback's a bitch."

"I don't have a cock."

"Exactly my point."

I pouted in mock dismay. I loved the verbal back and forth.

"Oh, very well. If you insist..."

I turned my head away from him and allowed my hair to drag along his chest. His abdomen tensed against the tickles and he laughed.

"Stop messing me abouuuw-ahh! _Ohfuckthatsgood!"_

I'd have agreed with him, but my mouth was too busy for words.

September 6th 1947 : Evening.

The speeches had been delivered, the food consumed, and the wedding cake cut while Andrew took some pictures. The wedding spread had been top notch with what had been available, and Sam was beyond pleased at how her mother and the church ladies had laid on such a decent spread.

She sighed happily, enjoying a brief respite from all the questions and curiosity from family and friends who hadn't seen much of her since she moved to Hastings and started working for Christopher.

Sam looked down at the gold ring on her finger and smiled a small secretive smile. Mrs Christopher Foyle. Samantha _Foyle. _

_I wonder how quickly we could decently leave? I'm almost embarrassed about how keen I am to be alone with my husband. _

"Penny for them."

Sam started in surprise, caught for a terrible moment in the thought that her Uncle Aubrey had seen inside her head.

She looked up and smiled again as she got to her feet.

"I was just thinking how well it went today. Thank you so much for giving me away. It meant a great deal to me and father."

Aubrey looked pleased as he patted her on the arm.

"Delighted to do it m'dear, thought you looked absolutely splendid. Would have married you myself if I was forty years younger...and not in the Church. Or your uncle."

Aubrey looked a little flustered and stopped speaking as he realised he was digging the hole deeper. He had obviously had a snifter or two of sherry, but Sam thought him very sweet. She turned him in the direction of the kitchen and guided him forward.

"That's a kind thought, Uncle. Have you had a chat with Cousin Nancy? She's having trouble with snails. I told her you'd be bound to be able to help. She's in the kitchen."

Like a galleon in sail, her uncle continued on his course unaided.

"Really? Snails, mmm? In the kitchen? Most odd. Is it unusually damp?"

He looked around when he received no answer, but Sam had slipped away.

Across the hall, Foyle had seen Sam expertly handle her tipsy uncle before losing herself among the people on the dance floor. He wondered – not for the first time today – how soon they could be on their way. He moved in the direction that his wife had taken, but kept being stopped and congratulated on his good fortune so often that he had only managed to move a few yards when Paul and Edith Milner caught up with him twenty minutes later. Paul had a sleeping Clementine in one arm, her face cuddled into his neck.

Foyle smiled at the picture he made. He had carried Andrew like that, more than once.

"You off?"

"I'm afraid so, both Clemmie and Edith need their rest. It's been a long day."

Foyle's internal radar pinged and he looked at Edith with a smile. She was blushing prettily against her pallor. She glanced at her husband before looking back to him.

"Congratulations again, Mr Foyle, we hope you and Samantha will be very happy."

He smiled and nodded.

"Thank you, I'm sure we will. I'll come out with you and we'll catch Sam on the way."

Almost as if she was looking out for them, Sam appeared just as they got to the door. Foyle was pleased to see that she had changed into her going away outfit. He slid his arm around her trim waist, comfortable at last with small public displays of his regard.

"There you are, my dear. Paul and Edith are just leaving."

"Yes, mother just told me."

They moved outside to where Andrew waited with his car. He was going to run the Milner's back to their room at the guest house where they were spending the night, and then return to the reception.

Everyone said their goodbyes and Edith reiterated their good wishes for the future, once they were settled in the car, before Andrew gave a cheery wave and pulled away.

When the noise of the car engine had faded, Sam turned to her husband. The sounds of the reception blended into the background of a late summer's evening.

"Edith is expecting again."

"I know. How did you know?'

"She told me. How did you know?"

"I'm a detective."

"I'll have to remember that."

With a smile, Foyle turned Sam to him and slipped his other arm around her. She settled into his warm embrace, feeling safe, excited, loved and blessed. She breathed in the scent of him, familiar, but new – he was _hers_ now.

"I think this is the first moment we've been alone since we got married."

She could hear the smile in his voice. She patted his chest next to where her chin rested.

"I know; it's almost as if they don't want to give us a moment to think..."

"Whereas...?"

Sam smiled; he knew her so well.

"Whereas, I've be doing nothing but _think.._."

She straightened up, aware that her face was tinged pink as they looked at each other. Foyle gave a small smile, just a lift to one side of his mouth, but his eyes twinkled.

"Y'know, I think it's about time we left. What do you say?"

"Oh, _rather."_

Foyle took her by the hand and they went to find her parents.

"It'll take a while, but I should think half an hour should be enough time to say goodbye to everyone and be on our way."

Sam grinned.

"Well, then we'll have to speak quickly. Twenty minutes."

"I'll do my best."

Forty minutes later Sam conceded that her husband had a better grasp on human beings than she did. After a final farewell to her parents, the newlyweds were finally leaving in the car arranged to take them to the hotel where they were spending the rest of the weekend before leaving Monday morning for two weeks in Cornwall, England's answer to the Riviera.

Sam waved back at their guests as Foyle drove off. A mile or so up the road, he stopped the car in a lay-by and they both removed the tin cans and old boots tied to the back bumper.

Once they were both back in the car, Foyle turned to Sam.

"I have to say, you look absolutely wonderful, Mrs Foyle."

Sam's smile was wide.

"Oh, please say that again."

Foyle's tone was indulgent, but sincere.

"You look _absolutely_ wonderful."

"No, no, the _other_ bit."

"Mrs Foyle?"

Sam sighed happily.

"Yes, _that_ bit. I'm so happy I'm fit to burst."

Foyle allowed a grin to escape.

"Steady on, Miss Stewart."

"Not any more."

Sam looked at Foyle with such _joie de vivre _that he leaned across to kiss her. She gladly met him halfway.

It was only the rude interruption of a passing car's horn that pulled them apart and reminded them where they were.

Feeling like a naughty child, Foyle cleared his throat as he attempted to regain his composure, ordering his body to settle down.

"I think we'd better get moving."

"Oh, yes _please_."

"Hungry?"

"Not in the least. You?"

_Ravenous._

"Not for food."

Sam didn't answer, but her smile was still wide.

TBC.


	23. Chapter 23

Disclaimer: Foyle's war is a copyright product, characters and settings used for entertainment only, no infringement intended. Certain original characters included are of my own invention.

Author: hazeleyes57

Title: What Will Be Ch23

Rating: 18, M, moderate mature themes. Sam/Foyle 'ship, so quit while you're ahead if that's not your thing. You've been warned!

A/N: Nearly done, not much more...Sam and Christopher are on their honeymoon and Mike surprises Lily.

What Will Be – Chapter 23 

"That was wonderfully sweet, but you didn't have to do that, you know."

Foyle deposited Sam on her feet and closed the door to their room behind him. He locked the door, leaving the key in it. He switched on another table light and noted that the heavy brocade curtains were already drawn.

"Well, I wanted to do it."

Sam, delighted with the gesture despite her slight misgivings, surveyed the beautiful high ceilinged room as she answered.

"We're trying not to attract attention as newlyweds and you carry me across the threshold. Supposing someone had seen us?"

Foyle's eyebrows went up as Sam, curious as ever, nosed behind closed doors.

"Well, I find myself not caring a jot. You're my wife, my pride, my joy. I don't mind who knows."

He watched Sam as she turned to him from the wardrobe she was investigating. She was pink again.

"That's lovely; I don't mind people knowing we're married, it's just..."

Her glance slid to the large four poster bed and back to him; her blush deepened.

Foyle crossed the room to take her hands in his.

"I'm sorry, I didn't think - ."

Sam slipped one hand free and touched his lips to hush him.

"Don't be sorry, I'm being silly. It was lovely, truly."

He accepted her apology with a nod and they looked at each other for a long moment.

Despite their dissembling, the sexual tension between them was building, but neither wanted to push too quickly and only one of them had done this before.

"Shall I..?"

"Do you...?"

They both spoke at the same time and they smiled with genuine amusement. Foyle nodded that Sam should go first.

She took a breath; Foyle could see her burgeoning anxiety and feel the tremor in her hand.

"I feel silly. We should have run away yesterday, then I wouldn't have worked myself up into such a lather."

Foyle felt some of his tension ease.

"We are in no hurry, we can do anything you like. I'm afraid it's too late to get a meal downstairs, but we can call room service, you can have a bath if you would like one, or we could go to bed. To sleep."

Sam looked crestfallen and he was momentarily at a loss as to the reason.

"You don't want to..?"

Her free hand waved vaguely in the direction of the bed.

He was cursing himself inside as he hastened to reassure her.

"Nothing could be further than the truth; I didn't want you to feel pressured. I would quite happily throw you on to the bed and join you, if that's what you desired."

"Throw? Really?"

Sam smiled with relief, quelling the urge to giggle at the image. She didn't want to sound like a child, but she was see-sawing back and forth between wanting to go on and mild fear of the unknown. The trembling was not entirely due to excitement this time. The interlude last week had helped tremendously, she knew something of the glittering prize at the end, but they still had to get there. They had shared many passionate kisses since their engagement, but in Sam's mind there was always the thought that Christopher would stop at a certain point, regardless of her feelings on the matter. This time they were not going to stop. At least, she hoped not, but just because she wanted to make love, it didn't mean that she was didn't also fret about it a little.

Foyle's voice was quiet.

"What do _you _desire?"

Her heartbeat fluttering like a bird, Sam took her courage in both hands.

"I think...that if you kissed me, just like you kissed me yesterday, that everything would be all right."

Foyle understood. Sam needed to be caught up in the moment, and he could appreciate her point of view.

"Very well, it would be my pleasure. But please _say_ something if you feel we're going too fast, mmm?"

Sam nodded jerkily.

Foyle removed his jacket and hung it over the back of the desk chair. He undid his tie and slid it out from under his collar. Immediately he appeared to Sam to be so much more accessible. Less _Mr Foyle_, more _Christopher_. Her nervousness lessened considerably.

He returned to her side and slowly undid the buttons on the little jacket she was wearing. He gently slipped it down her arms, leaving Sam in a sleeveless light wool dress that had small buttons running from the sweetheart neckline to below her waist.

Foyle shook his head gently.

"_So beautiful."_

He ran his hands up her arms until he reached her shoulders, then leaned in slightly and caught a hint of her perfume. It was a light, delicate fragrance and it suited her.

"Your scent is lovely."

"Thank you."

_We're being so polite. Where is the passion? Am I doing this wrong?_

Christopher tipped her head up and kissed her, a proper lover's kiss, before his lips moved to her neck, just below her ear.

Sam gasped aloud.

_My goodness, that's more like it. Electricity!_

"Sam?"

"Oh, crikey _yes, _all good, carry on."

_Oh bother; I sound like a sixth former._

Christopher's lips returned to her neck and she moved to let him, suddenly quite diverted from her anxiety. She barely noticed when he gathered her to him or when her own arms snaked around his waist, so caught up was she in the sensations he was creating. After several enjoyable minutes of light kisses and soft touches that both calmed and aroused her, Sam worried that he was holding back, as if afraid of hurting her, but she wanted more than that.

When Foyle felt the rapid pulse under his lips, he lifted his head to make sure Sam was still _with_ him. It was all he could do to keep himself in check, but he knew that to rush her now would be a disaster. His gaze fell to her mouth as he pulled her closer and her lips parted as if to speak, though no words came out before he took her mouth with his own. Heat, like liquid fire, raced through his veins. Now she was in his arms he realised that he was fooling only himself if he thought that they could take this slowly. Without any protest from her he deepened the kiss, shamelessly taking all that she offered. He couldn't pull away; he deepened the kiss still more, his tongue delving to meet hers as she kissed him back without reservation. Sam arched against him, giving an involuntary moan deep in her throat that almost dissolved the last vestige of his control.

Foyle tore his mouth from hers while he still could. Her mewl of dismay gratified him beyond measure, as did the cloudy desire in her eyes. They stared at each other for a second or so, plastered together with no hope that she could mistake his arousal for anything other than what it was. Sam yielded first, tugging at handfuls of shirt and pulling the material free at Foyle's waist. With hands that shook slightly, he started on the frustratingly small buttons on Sam's dress. His task was made more difficult by the fact that Sam was trying to remove his shirt and kiss him at the same time.

Suddenly she pushed at his chest.

"Wait...hold on...just a second..."

Foyle looked up in mild dismay, a question in his eyes. Sam gave him a hold-that-thought smile but eased away briefly. Ignoring the buttons at her chest, she twisted slightly and opened the fine zip down the side of her dress. Without ceremony she grabbed the hem, pulled the dress off over her head and threw it towards the chair, leaving her standing in a pale peach silk camisole, knickers and nude stockings.

"Better?"

"Yep."

Having seen his expression, Sam didn't need the answer, but it reassured her – if she needed it – that he found her so desirable. Foyle made short work of his remaining clothes, leaving himself in the plain boxer shorts he favoured before he returned to Sam. The kiss was almost a consummation in itself, his thighs were hard against hers and his heart hammered in his chest.

To Sam, the feel of his mouth on hers, warm and urgent, hinted at leashed passion and secret pleasures to be shared when she was ready. His hands warmed her through the silk cami and the solid sureness of him against her leg made her shiver in anticipation.

"Cold?"

She shook her head. The time for consideration was past.

"_Burning."_

His voice was warm in her ear.

"Tell me what you want."

"You."

Sam felt bold enough now to move back towards the bed, pulling him by the hand. When her legs backed against the bed, she moved to take off her camisole, but Foyle stopped her.

"Please allow me..."

Happy to defer to him, she remained as still as she could - considering she wanted to run her hands over him - as he slid one shoulder strap down and then the other one. As he kissed the newly revealed skin the camisole was loose enough to fall to her waist. Only a little assistance from Foyle made it slip over her hips and fall to the floor, leaving her nearly nude. She moved to cover herself, but he took her hand.

"Please don't; you are so beautiful."

Foyle was pleased to see her relief. Her pert breasts were peaked as he took her back in his arms and kissed her again. Her arms wound round his neck as she eagerly followed his lead, no longer simply responding to him, but initiating too.

When the kisses were no longer enough, Sam went to remove her stockings and garter belt, but Foyle asked her to leave them. She seated herself on the edge of the bed and eagerly turned to him. She touched his shorts, but then hesitated and looked up at him. They hadn't gone this far before.

He offered her _carte blanche,_ his voice rough with emotion.

"Anything you want to do."

Emboldened, she ran her hand over the outside of the tented cotton, delighting when she heard his sucked-in breath. Careful not to catch him, she pulled the shorts down and looked, quite fascinated, at what was revealed. Without a word, Sam reached out and circled him with one hand, while taking the weight of his balls in the other. She indulged her curiosity, familiarising herself with this new aspect of Christopher, without realising quite what effect it was having on him. After a very long minute or two from his point of view, Foyle put a hand on her shoulder.

"I think you'd better stop for now, Sam."

She looked up at the strain in his voice and the penny dropped.

"Oh. _Oh, _of course. I'm sorry..."

Foyle couldn't prevent the smile that surfaced as he shook his head once.

"Don't be; it was all too good."

It suddenly dawned on Sam how much of lovemaking was a two way street. _She_ had made him feel _that _good, it wasn't just about her. She felt powerful.

She wasn't scared or nervous any more.

She stood up again and kissed him, quickly and hard, then got under the covers. She discreetly wriggled out of her knickers and lay down just as he climbed in beside her.

Foyle sensed the shift in her attitude and smiled, unable to resist teasing her.

"Sure you don't want to go to sleep?"

Her tone was just as teasingly prim.

"Not just yet, thank you."

"Good."

Little more was said as kisses took the place of conversation, until Foyle pulled back the bedding. Propped on his left elbow, he covered one splendid breast with a hand and lowered his mouth to the other. Sam arched under him and gasped with unmistakable delight. Foyle kissed her with such hunger, such explosive warmth, that she was soon swept up on a wave of desire.

Very soon the attention of her husband's mouth and oh-so-clever fingers was not enough; Sam yearned for more. It was almost a relief when Foyle slid his hand down and across her hips to dip a finger lower. Sam's eyes opened wide with shock as her excitement spiralled even higher. It was only then that she realised that her husband was watching her, gauging her reaction, and adjusting to improve her pleasure. In that moment, she thought him the cleverest man in the whole world and she loved him dearly.

Sam gave herself up to the sheer delight of running her hands over his skin and tangling her fingers through the light covering of his chest hair. She couldn't seem to get him close enough to satisfy the demands her own body was making. Her belly tightened and her hips lifted of their own volition, following a primitive cadence all their own under his hand.

To her dismay the hand was withdrawn moments later, just as the most exquisite sensations were building. She opened dazed eyes, her pupils dilated with passion, and wondered why he had stopped, but it became clear when Foyle moved over her. She eagerly shifted to welcome him. Although his ragged breathing reflected the strain he was under, he stroked her most sensitive flesh again until she was writhing with need. With firm care he eased his body into hers, almost immediately breaching the slight resistance that made Sam gasp and tense under him. Sweat misted his brow as he fought the instinctive urge to thrust home and claim her, waiting instead until she relaxed again and lifted her hips to encourage him. He slid deeper into the welcoming warmth and couldn't help but groan aloud at the utter pleasure of being exactly where he was.

It hadn't taken Sam more than a few moments to get used to the intrusion. This was what she had unknowingly craved – the feel of him inside her, possessing her – it was beyond compare. She wanted it all - everything. Her arms came up around his neck as he braced himself over her, his bent arms either side of her. Their eyes met as he slowly withdrew and returned, pumping gently while she learned how to move with him. Encouraged by her sighs and gasps of pleasure, he claimed her, again and again, as his hips rocked against hers. He picked up the pace and Sam followed naturally, chasing the storm that gathered low in her belly. She clasped Foyle to her, clutching at whatever she could reach, pushing to meet his every thrust, climbing higher with every second. Heat coiled through her body, spreading from where they were joined and out to her limbs. She wanted to tell him what was happening, how _that _feeling was nearly upon her, but she was too caught up in it. The conflagration raged through her, tearing a path as it went, until suddenly she was teetering on the brink of ecstasy before another thrust plunged her into such intense pleasure that she wasn't certain she would remain conscious.

Foyle had been determined to see to Sam's satisfaction first, but he was barely holding back, the urge to come overwhelming. He gritted his teeth and tried not think about how incredible it was to be buried to the hilt in – _God, no, think of something else – not of how warm and wet and luscious and tight – oh dear God, Sam!_

Just when he thought he was lost, Foyle felt Sam stiffen beneath him and her fingers dug into his back. The rippling caresses that stroked him so intimately were a welcome partner to her cries of ecstasy, but they ripped away any semblance of control and he exploded, spilling his seed deep inside her with a pleasure so profound it left him utterly drained.

Sam recovered – if that was the word – first. As she lay mostly covered by her husband she felt both energised and shattered. She felt as if she could achieve anything she wanted, but she also felt so marvellously replete, so warm and cherished that she didn't want to move at all. She didn't have enough words to describe it, but she wondered if she could ever come close to such an experience again. How could it possible to recreate such supreme pleasure more than once? She ran her hands up and down Foyle's spine, loving the hard warmth of his body, the way that his breath puffed against her neck, and how their hearts thundered in their chests. His solid presence was no longer just a dream that she might wake up from. Tears stung her eyes at the thought that she might have missed the chance to love this man so completely.

Foyle lifted his head and shifted further on to his left arm to relieve Sam from some of his weight.

After such a superlative climax, Foyle was momentarily lost for words, but his heart plunged in his chest at the sight of Sam's tears.

"Sam? What's wrong? Have I hurt you?"

The smile she gave him was incandescent; her tears vanished in an instant and she threw her arms around his waist.

"Good heavens, no! It was all utterly wonderful – better than _wonderful, _better than I could possibly imagine!"

Foyle was considerably relieved. He smiled down at Sam and then dropped a kiss on her lips.

"Thank goodness for that. You had me worried."

Sam shook her head.

"Happy tears, honest. _Gosh._"

She moved a hand to his neck and toyed with the little curls of hair. She had wanted to touch those curls a long time ago, but had never dared dream...

"Gosh?"

"Even last week didn't prepare me for _that."_

Foyle took a moment to bask in the afterglow, but he really should have known better.

Sam looked at him, her eyes shining.

"How soon can we do it again?"

Foyle huffed with amusement, not surprised by the question. It had been a concern for him that he wouldn't have the stamina of a younger man, but this was one of the times where experience would oust youth.

"Well, I might need a few minutes to be...ready...again, but you, my darling, have no such limits."

"What do you mean?"

Foyle kissed her before he slid down her body, offering tender salutations to her neck and throat, her breasts, her stomach and the sweet dip of her belly button before arriving at the delicate gold curls at the apex of her thighs.

Sam shivered with rising excitement and some curiosity, as he lowered his head.

"What are you doing...?"

She watched, mesmerised, as he took her in his mouth.

"Oh! That's...oh..._oh, my...!"_

The Present

Asleep, and deeply, something intruded into my consciousness and it woke me up. Mike wasn't in bed beside me.

"Mike?"

Something hit the floor at the end of the bed and to my very real horror, something grunted unintelligibly, and a silhouette appeared from the direction of the sound.

I scrabbled up the bed and screamed.

"Mike? Mike! _Mike!" _

The silhouette mumbled sleepily.

"Wha?"

My relief was profound that I wasn't about to be murdered, but I wondered what the hell was going on.

"What are you doing? You scared me half to death! This baby won't sleep for days with _that _shot of adrenaline."

I got out of bed and walked around to him. He seemed to still be mostly asleep. I remember he told me that he used to sleepwalk when he was little, so just in case he was now, I guided him back to bed and he obediently climbed back in, turned on his side and was out like a light.

_What the frack?_

My heart was still going like a trip hammer and I was wide awake. I walked back around to my side of the bed, and stubbed my toe on something.

"_Lights one."_

The lowest level of illumination gave me sufficient light to see some tools scattered on the floor, including the 'driver I'd just kicked. At first I didn't realise what it meant, but suddenly two and two made four. I sat down awkwardly on the floor beside the floorboard I'd repaired so long ago. The now-dull screw was halfway out of the hole – I was lucky I hadn't trod on it with a bare foot. After a moment's hesitation, I screwed it back down.

_What the hell was Mike doing taking up this particular floorboard? _

TBC.


	24. Chapter 24

Disclaimer: Foyle's War is a copyright product and does not belong to me. No profit being made, any infringement is entirely accidental.

Author: hazeleyes57

Rating:16, T

A/N: I'm sure you will all guess where this is going by now, but what the heck, it has been fun. Not long to go now...

What Will Be – Chapter 24

_What the hell was Mike doing taking up this particular floorboard? _

I looked around the room and felt as if something was tapping at my consciousness. Now I was thinking about it, lots of odd little things had been happening since Mike moved in with me. When I moved in I had the bed on the opposite wall to its present location – I slept on the right of the bed and wanted my back to the windows when it was bright in the morning, but Mike suggested the bed looked 'better' on the other wall; as I wasn't that bothered, we moved it and got thicker window treatments. Now it was exactly where Chris had placed his bed.

Mike knew where things were before he was shown. The bathroom, the pantry, where the spare key was to the back door for the courtyard garden. Once, and I'm kicking myself for only recalling it now, he suggested putting something in the cupboard under the stairs, but someone, possibly even Chris after I left, had previously taken the cupboard _out_ and left the under stair space open. When I said that we didn't have a cupboard there he looked really bemused and we just laughed about it.

I went back to bed and left the stuff on the floor for the morning. Perhaps Mike would remember what he was doing when he awoke tomorrow.

Having been interrupted during the night, I overslept in the morning, and didn't wake until Mike brought me berry tea and some toast. I'd migrated to his side of the bed while I'd slept so he put the tea on his bedside table. The first thing I clapped eyes on was the filigree box.

"Did you bring that box up from the living room?"

"Good morning Mike, thanks for the tea, love of my life, ooh, toast as well, you are spoiling me, my dove. And, no, I didn't."

I hauled my dual occupation carcass upright and propped up the pillows behind me.

"Morning O light of my life, most precious of all my man-concubines. Thank you for the tea and toast."

Mike frowned.

"You're welcome. Is there such a thing as man-concubines? Didn't you bring it up here?"

"What? The box? No. Which reminds me. Do you remember getting up in the night?"

Mike shook his head.

"Nope. Slept like a log."

"Well, only if logs sleepwalk and take up floorboards. All that stuff on the floor is yours."

Mike shook his head again.

"I wondered. Thought you were having trouble sleeping."

The idea that I would calm myself for bed by tackling DIY seemed a bit off the wall, even for us, but I let the matter drop while I ate my toast.

Mike climbed on the bed beside me and ran his hand over the bump, which was fast becoming a personality in its own right.

"How's Junior today?"

"Active. Unerring sense of accuracy between his/her foot and my back, ribs, kidneys and bladder; delete as appropriate."

"That's my boy."

"Or girl."

"True."

I'd finished my toast and we lay quiet, just relaxing. Mike's hand on my stomach was soothing and warm, and I felt quite drowsy. After a while I was vaguely aware that Mike had nodded off; he'd given that funny little jerk you do just when you fall into proper sleep. Pleasantly relaxed, I thought I'd shut my eyes, just for a minute.

"_It's alright, darling, there's no need to worry, we have plenty of time to get to the hospital."_

His tone is meant to be reassuring, but hers is querulous.

"_I don't want to go to the hospital, can't we just stay here?"_

"_You know what the midwife said; your first baby ought to be at the hospital."_

"_First? You honestly think I'll have others after this?"_

_He didn't get chance to answer._

"_Aaargh, not another one! I'm sure that was quicker than the last few. Oh, dear Heaven, it hurts!"_

"_I know it does, but just think what a wonderful thing is happening. We'll be seeing our baby soon. But you must get up, Sam, I've brought the car round, it's not far to walk."_

"_I can't move! Why don't you understand?"_

_Christopher's anxious-but-trying-to-hide-it face looks down at me on the bed, and I can feel the solid tightening of the muscles under my hand. My large belly is as tight as a drum and I want to detach it from me to make the pain go away._

_He reached out and gathered me up, helping me to my feet. As I stood up the pain increased dramatically. Was this normal? I couldn't get a grip on what I was supposed to be doing before another pain sliced through me like a knife._

I jerked awake, disturbing Mike as I did so. As dreams go, it was frighteningly vivid and my heart was beating fast.

"Wassup?"

I didn't know what to say. Should I tell him I just had the wits knocked out of me with a scary 'labour' dream? It seemed ridiculous, but it had felt so _real. _

"Nothing; just a daft daydream and some Braxton-Hicks."

Mike shifted closer.

"Nu'okay?"

I smiled at the sleepily warm query.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Go back to sleep."

Mike already appeared to have done so, but I was wide awake now. I waited a little while until Mike had started to snore gently before I eased carefully out of the bed. Quietly, I went to the end of the bed and looked down at the floorboard Mike had tried to get at last night. Curiosity got the better of me and I knelt down, a little awkwardly, with the 'driver in my hand. The screw gave easily, and moments later I had the board up, though it squeaked noisily and I froze, waiting with bated breath to see if I'd woken Mike again.

His breathing continued evenly, and I put aside the board. I reached into the apparently empty floorspace and almost immediately put my hand on the small box I didn't really expect to find.

_That's odd. How would Chris have made the shrewd investments I'd suggested to make their retirement comfortable if he hadn't found the box?_

I brushed the accumulated dust of many years off the metal lid. I was in two minds about opening it, but I gave in and tried the lid. The box was locked. There was no key taped to the bottom, but I could see flaky remnants of ancient sticky tape where once a key had been taped. I reached back into the hidey-hole and after some unpleasant encounters with a few spider webs and hard lumps of things I don't want to think about, I found the key.

A moment later and I lifted the lid. My letter was still there.

But there were others too, several of them. Scarcely daring to believe my eyes, I took them all out. Mine had been opened. I picked the next one under mine and carefully opened the letter with fingers that were shaking.

_Dearest Lily,_

_If someone were to ask why I am writing this letter, I could not tell them, for to do so would make me appear quite mad. I shall not put pen to paper with my thoughts on where you are now, but it is my sincerest hope and wish that you are well and safe, particularly considering the condition you were in when we met for the last time. _

_I want, no, I need to thank you. Without meeting you, I'm not sure that I would ever have risked placing my heart into someone else's care. You showed me that life may still be a gamble, but if one doesn't ask, then the answer will always be 'no'. _

_I shall ask, later, when the time is right, as best as I can judge it, and will try to be patient until then. I have returned your original letter to the box as we both know that it cannot afford to be found by anyone else._

It was signed 'Yours with deep affection, Christopher', but my eyes filled up as I read; 'yours with deep affection' had been cleanly scored through with a single line and the words '_Love always'_ replaced them.

I replaced that letter and dug out the next one. It was dated May 1945. Several lines popped out at me as I skipped through the note.

_Dear Lily,_

_The best of news, the War is over, and thank the Good Lord Above, we have come through it..._

_Paul and Edith Milner have a daughter, Clementine, who I pray will never see another war in her lifetime..._

_I have resigned – again, but this time I really mean to see it through. Times have changed, and I think it will be tough going for some years to come yet..._

_Sam has left the MTC and is working as a housekeeper to an artist. It concerns me, but I have to trust her judgement..._

I didn't read the whole letter. I wanted to keep them all to read later, more carefully, when I wasn't seated on the floor in my nightwear, but I also wanted to open all the letters right this minute and find out just what happened to Chris, Sam and the others, even though I knew that the timeline had been 'fixed'.

I gathered up the letters and put them back in the metal box. I replaced the floorboard and screwed it back down, and then started the laborious process of getting to my feet. One leg was dead and gave me pins and needles when I finally got to my feet. I stood as still as possible and waited for the pain to pass.

Feeling oddly unsettled, I left the letters on the table between the two tall bedroom windows. I wanted Mike's arms around me, but I also felt disloyal to him by wanting to read letters from the man who had made love to me for one glorious, summer afternoon, and gave me the baby I carried under my heart.

I returned to the bed Mike and I shared and looked at the man I loved more than life itself. I got back on to the bed and propped myself sideways on my pillows. Mike snuffled, somehow realising that I was there, and moved closer to me. His head rested against my back and his hand slid proprietorially over my hip and on to The Bump. He mumbled something, but I didn't catch it all.

"_...baby?"_

He still sounded all but asleep.

"Mike?"

"_Can't have a dog, my dear, not enough room..."_

I froze; the hair on my neck stood up on end. For one insane moment, I was utterly convinced that Chris was behind me. The tone, the inflection, was completely his, not Mike at all.

I twisted around in the bed until I could see Mike's face. My agitation had woken him up, and he looked at me with drowsy puzzlement.

"What's up? You look like you've seen a ghost."

My heart was beating fast and my stomach flipped unhappily, but I made myself smile a little.

"You were talking in your sleep about not having a dog here because there wasn't enough room."

Mike rubbed a hand over his face and horizontally scratched his forehead, thinking hard by the look of it.

"Was I? That's odd. I've never thought of having a dog, but I suppose we could keep a small one, y'know, if you really wanted one. Do you?"

This was right out of the blue.

"No, I've never had one. Don't think it'd be a good idea anyway, I'll have my hands full with the baby soon."

"Oh, okay..."

I recognised that tone.

"Why? Do you want one?"

Mike's focus became distant as he gave the idea serious consideration. Then he gave me a sexy smile, and slid a hand up my leg, under my nightdress. I recognised a diversionary tactic when I saw it, but he had such a way with his diversions, I didn't really mind at all.

"Perhaps it's not a good idea. One animal in the house is enough for me."

We agreed to discuss it later. Much later.

Unfortunately I also forgot what started the conversation in the first place.

December 1947

Christopher Foyle took a cautious sip of his scalding hot tea as he watched Sam _– his wife – _moving easily around the kitchen as she assembled breakfast. Three months married and she had settled in to this house as if she had always been there. He very rarely thought of Rosalind and Sam at the same time; certainly he did not attempt to compare them as they were quite different women in their own way, each of their era, but today for some reason he thought of Rosalind getting his breakfast while Andrew banged a wooden spoon on the table of his highchair and dropped boiled egg on the floor.

Sam glanced over her shoulder at him.

"One egg or two?"

"Oh, one will do nicely. I rather think my trousers are getting a little snug."

Sam turned from the cooker for a better look and smiled.

"Absolute tosh. You look just fine to me, I'm sure you're imagining it."

She turned back to the now gently frying eggs.

"Or I've been washing your trousers incorrectly. Anyway, my mother tells me that I should expect you to put on a little weight now that you are a married man, you know, contentment and all that. She seems to think that single men are incapable of managing to feed themselves properly."

Her husband's expression conveyed healthy scepticism.

"Really?"

Sam laughed.

"Don't worry, I told her that you were a marvellous cook and an absolute wonder in the kitchen."

Foyle's lips twisted with amusement.

"And how did that go down?"

"Badly. Backfired on me, actually. She was scandalised that you were cooking at all. She pointed out that it was my job now. It's quite odd. Mother is all in favour of women's emancipation, but has quite firm ideas about a husband and a wife's duties."

"Well, I shouldn't worry about that Sam, you are an asset in all parts of my life, including the cooking. Considering that we still have rationing you come up with some very imaginative meals with limited resources."

Sam efficiently slid one egg next to the bacon turnovers on a warmed plate and placed it in front of her husband. She put the other egg on her plate and took her seat at the table.

"You haven't forgiven me for the cabbage and mince scramble, have you?"

Foyle pursed his lips, biting back his amusement.

"It was an easy mistake to make; the difference between a teaspoon and a tablespoon is not clear in shorthand form."

Sam took up her cutlery, ready to tuck in.

"Yes, but it was _salt. _It was inedible."

"Mmm, yes, while I agree it was memorable, it isn't a habit of yours, so your laurels are safe."

"Tickety boo."

Foyle poured a cup of tea for Sam and added a dash of milk. She nodded her thanks and they ate quietly. Sam, as usual, finished first.

"We'll go for a walk this afternoon if you like, you know, if you really are worried about your trousers."

Her husband pondered briefly on the short sharp shock of going outside to fill the coal scuttle earlier.

"We shall have to wrap up warm or walk quickly. It's bright, but quite cold out."

Sam had nearly finished her tea, making short work of it despite the temperature.

"We'll wrap up warm then. I think we get plenty of exercise as it is."

Her cheeky grin left her him under no illusion as to what form of exercise she meant. He reached to pick up his tea as she blithely continued.

"Besides, it's probably me shrinking the laundry. Several of my skirts and blouses are getting a bit tight too."

Foyle's hand stilled on his cup.

"Oh?"

The present.

It's official. I am as big as a house. I can't reach to put on my socks. I gave up and found some summer slip ons. I change my clothing plan – yet again – and look for the pink and flowery dress that would only require guy lines to make it a passable marquee. After searching in the bottom of the wardrobe for an appropriate bag, my face is the same colour as the dress. I need another shower.

"You ready, hon?"

_Do I look fracking ready, you skinny..._

Deep breath. Unclench teeth. Relax...

"Nearly."

Mike raised his eyebrow at the response; perhaps it was a little more terse than I was aiming for. With admirable restraint he didn't refer to the fact that I wasn't wearing what I had been wearing when he went downstairs. He also didn't make the mistake of telling me that I _looked great _or to_ hurry up._

Dear sweet adorable sexy Mike, the love of my life, hadn't put a foot wrong today but I am still irritated. How can I shout at him when he's done nothing wrong?

_Hah! He's too perfect._

I open my mouth to give him both barrels, but he looked at me and smiled.

"We don't have to go, y'know. No-one would blame us. It's hot, you're tired..."

I cut off what I had been about to say. It was really tempting to stay here with my feet up. My back was killing me. I half-heartedly protested.

"It's a wedding, Mike. We can't just not turn up."

He smiled again and my heart melted. How does he do that?

"Of course we can. You're due any time in the next week or so, and they know it."

We made our way downstairs while we were talking. Mike turned to me in the hall, a serious look on his face.

"You don't need an excuse, you have a _reason _not to be there if you don't want to be. I can call and make our apologies. Unless you can you come up with a better reason not to go?"

I thought for a moment, rubbing The Bump. I usually found it quite soothing.

One thing did suddenly spring to mind.

"Um, Mike? I think my waters just broke."

TBC.


	25. Chapter 25

Disclaimer: Foyle's War and its characters are a copyright product, no infringement is intended, no profit made.

Rating: Nothing to declare, safe for all.

Author: hazeleyes57

A/N: Last time I mentioned alcohol and a pregnant woman, I got roasted. Times were different then, so please, no preaching to the already aware :-)

What Will Be – Chapter 25

The Present.

Well, that's one way to get out of going to a wedding, but I wouldn't recommend it. Giving birth, I mean. Poor Mike, it's going to take him a while to adjust. He's tickled pink of course, or maybe I should say tickled blue, as we had a boy. A son. Even now, I can't quite believe it. I'm someone's mother. God, I hope they come with a handbook. Babies for Dummies. Or is that Dummies for Babies? It's only now occurring to me that this is a rest-of-my-life-responsibility thing. It won't just be until he's sixteen, or twenty-one, or even fifty. Assuming I'm still around then. My parents, grandparents and great grandparents are still with us, thank goodness, so I shan't be short of advice.

My mind rattles on. I'm tired and I think I'm low on glucose, I could really do with something to eat.

"You okay?"

I turn my head back to the other side of my bed where my darling Mike is breaking the rules by sitting on the bed.

"Mmm, I guess. Bit hungry. How you holding up, _Dad?"_

Mike grins; like me he's tired but elated. He squeezes the hand he is holding and I squeeze back.

"I'm holding up, just. But then you did all the hard work."

I nearly said '_oh, but you did your bit nine months ago' _but managed to stop myself. Mike and I have discussed the ramifications of the baby's biological father and are both in solid agreement that Mike is the father, end of story. We can't think of any reason that the truth will need to come out, barring, God forbid, any medical reason. I don't mind that my friends and co-workers and family all think that Mike and I were a secret couple for ages; now that I know him better, I wished we had been, even if a tiny corner of my heart hankers after Chris.

The midwife entered the room to check that the monitors were doing their job and that I was still breathing. In the meantime I smirked at Mike.

"True. But you were there when you were needed, that's all that matters."

Mike grinned, even when he was shooed off the bed by the midwife.

"If you can spare me a minute, I'll let your family know what's going on. The waiting area is a little busy..."

"I bet."

"Can I tell them his name?"

"Sure. I think it will suit him."

That was another thing we had agreed on. No daft male flower names and we were not going to call him Christopher, even if it was the name of both of his dads.

Jonathan Michael O'Neill. After Mike and his father. Although the baby's grandfather is always called Jack, so we won't confuse the two.

Christmas Day 1947

Sam surveyed the dining table with a critical eye and finally nodded to herself. She was determined to make their first Christmas meal as a married couple a good one; the very best she could manage with rationing at least. She returned to the kitchen, which was warm and humid, redolent with the smell of cooking food. Sam breathed deep; she did so love her food.

"Sam?"

"In the kitchen, darling!"

Sam grinned to herself. She still occasionally had to pinch herself when she referred to the man she used to call 'sir' or DCS Foyle as _Darling._

"Shall I open the wine?"

"Ooh, yes _please."_

A sudden thought struck her.

"It's not that bottle we got from Uncle Aubrey, is it?"

Christopher Foyle smiled, well aware of her concerns. He entered the kitchen.

"No, this is a rather nice, full bodied red that Andrew gave us for Christmas. I know it should be a white, but I also know your preferences."

_And, no, I won't be asking my son where he got it._

Sam whipped around, her dismay obvious.

"Oh, you haven't already opened the presents, have you?"

Her husband's forehead crinkled as both eyebrows rose at her anxious expression.

"No, just the bottle-shaped one from Andrew. Bit of a give-away really; thought you might like a drink with dinner."

"Well, yes I would, but that spoils the surprise."

Christopher's lips twitched as he used the corkscrew.

"Hardly."

"You know what I mean."

Foyle looked up as he withdrew the cork from the bottle with a satisfyingly discreet '_pop'._

"Yes, I do. Christmas is indeed a time for miracles."

Sam turned back to the cooker, leaving him to sniff the wine bottle's cork appreciatively. Andrew did know his wine, thank goodness.

_And thinking of the miracle of Christmas, I wonder if Sam has had any news for me yet..._

It was inevitable, he supposed, that they would start a family at some point. He had been as careful as he could, simply because he didn't want to tie Sam down too soon, but on the other hand, he wasn't getting any younger. She, bless her, was content to leave it in the hands of fate. Her favourite expression after 'tickety-boo' seemed to be 'what will be, will be'.

"I see the snow is still falling heavily. It looked just like a Christmas card out there a little while ago. I'm glad we're having the day to ourselves, I would have worried about everyone travelling to get here."

Foyle was of the same mind. The snow was much deeper than yesterday.

"We can speak to everyone on the telephone later, after this delicious feast has been tucked away."

Sam had insisted on Christopher remaining seated at the table while she brought the warmed and filled dishes through from the kitchen. She left the small but plump turkey until last, placing the golden brown bacon-covered bird in front of him for carving after they said Grace. His mouth was watering with anticipation as they both gave thanks to God for their bounty.

Foyle stood and poured them both a glass of wine, handing one to Sam.

"A toast, to my charming wife, not only for all her hard work today, but for rescuing me and making me the happiest of men."

Sam smiled and blushed as they both gently clinked their glasses and took a sip of wine.

"Thank you. I should like to offer a toast of my own. To my utterly charming husband, the delight of my life, who makes me feel every day as if I'm still on our honeymoon."

Foyle's eyes crinkled with appreciation as they took another drink.

"Thank you, my dear."

Placing the glass on the table, Foyle rubbed his hands together before taking up the carving knife and fork. He looked at Sam, one eyebrow raised with suspicious innocence.

"Breast, leg or a bit of both?"

Sam grinned widely, the gleam in her eye quite wicked.

"Ooh, both please. My father always asked if we wanted white meat or dark. I've only just worked out why."

Christopher's bark of laughter pleased her enormously.

The present.

Six week old Jonathan Michael O'Neill can get by on three hours of sleep. Unfortunately, I can't. I'm utterly exhausted. My body is not my own any more, it's an on call twenty four seven feeding and cuddling station. Mike does what he can, but I don't like to wake him in the night as he does have to work and he can't afford to make mistakes, other people's lives depend on him getting it right.

The baby is finally asleep and I'm trying to decide between eating, showering or bed. I sit down on the bed to try to make a decision. It seems a lot more difficult than usual.

The next thing I know is that there is someone at the front door. I'm face down on a drool covered pillow but terrified the knocking will wake the baby. Barefoot, I trot downstairs as quickly as I can and yank open the door.

Still as impossibly glamorous, Grammas took one look at me and took charge. She's the original force of nature everyone talks about.

"Baby asleep?"

I nodded blearily.

"Kitchen."

I nodded again as she swept past and I closed the door behind her, before following her to the kitchen.

Five minutes later I had a hot drink and breakfast in front of me. I wolfed it down, suddenly starving.

I looked at Grammas, but my mouth was full.

"?"

"Mike called me this morning."

Oh. I've been grassed up.

Grammas held her teacup with both hands as she looked at me. She tutted.

"Dear child, you don't have to cope on your own. There is so much family here to help you, all you had to do was ask."

Now I felt full but weepy.

Grammas took away the empty plate.

"Now, take me to Jonathan."

It didn't occur to me not to obey, which is quite unlike me.

An hour later, Grammas left with Jonathan, all his travelling paraphernalia and several bottles of breast milk. I don't think my breasts will ever forgive me.

I had a shower as soon as I could; I'd fall asleep and probably drown if I had a bath. When I returned to the bedroom, the bedding was fresh and clean and smelt like heaven when I fell into it.

_Thanks Grammas, I owe you. _

It was my last conscious thought for quite a while.

I came to gradually, pleasantly rested, and stretched out some kinks. I startled, suddenly remembering.

_Jonathan!_

No. No, it was all right. He was with Grammas. I relaxed back, feeling much better.

I could see that it was early evening, I just had no clue what day it was. The other side of the bed had not been slept in, so I assumed that it was still...

I frowned. I couldn't think what day it was _before_ I'd slept.

Part of me wanted to remain in bed, but another part of me didn't want to waste this time to myself.

I suddenly remembered the letters. I went and got them and climbed back into bed.

_Dearest Lily..._

Christmas Day 1947

Sam and Christopher Foyle listened to King George VI Christmas speech on the radio after they had finished their meal. When he spoke of the Commonwealth as a family, Sam felt a gentle hug from her husband and a kiss to the top of her head as they lounged together comfortably on the settee. Sam wished she could freeze the moment in time because it was simply perfect.

When the speech had concluded, Christopher went to switch the radio off, but she asked him to leave it on down low so they could have the carol service playing while they opened their gifts before church.

Sam was delighted with her baby-soft kid gloves, a very smart beige colour that would go very well with her coat. Christopher was touched that Sam had found an obscure book about fly-fishing that he had been trying to find for ages. He recalled seeing a copy in the bookshop window back in October, but by the time he could go back for it, it had been sold. It didn't take a detective to work out where it had gone. They opened the remaining presents that were under the tree while sitting on the floor in front of the fire. Sam was delighted with her tangerine and sniffed it with pleasure.

"The smell of these always reminds me of Christmas. This was one of the things I missed during the war."

There and then her husband resolved to get her a tangerine every Christmas if he possibly could. Her pleasure in such simple things offset the discomfort of sitting on the rug and worrying about whether or not he could get up again. He reached under the lowest branches and found one last gift, addressed to 'My darling husband with all my love, Sam xxxx'.

Foyle was surprised to see it, because it had not been there last night. He looked up at Sam and noted the tension in her shoulders. It was not reflected in her shy smile, but his heart sped up and his instincts went on alert.

_Whatever this is, it's very important to Sam._

Foyle pulled off the wrapping paper and found a small cardboard box labelled 'candles'. It obviously did not contain any because it was not heavy enough, and further investigation revealed folded tissue paper inside. With another glance at Sam, he pulled the flimsy white paper out of the box. He opened the paper and felt a rush of emotion.

"Oh, my _dear_ one."

He was too full to add anything else but Sam could not wait a moment longer and rushed into speech.

"You don't mind, do you? I know that you would have preferred to wait a while, but...well, we did talk about it, and...although...Oh, you're not _saying_ anything. You're not pleased are you? Please say _something!"_

Foyle carefully put the box aside and rose up on his knees - as best as he could - to gently pull Sam into his arms. He smiled before stilling her lips briefly with his.

"I would have, but I couldn't get a word in."

He got to his feet and helped Sam to hers before guiding her to the settee. He retrieved the tissue package and its small contents and took his place beside his wife.

"This is a wonderful gift and I am delighted."

"Really? You don't mind?"

"Not at all. I know it's what you wished for and I could not be happier. Truly."

Sam flung her arms around his neck.

"Tickety-boo!"

Foyle smiled. Sam released him far enough to look into his eyes.

"Did you guess?"

"I did wonder."

"I thought you did. It was when we were talking about your clothes getting snug. When I mentioned mine were a bit tight too, you got that funny look on your face that you get when you get the last clue or someone has given the game away about their guilt. It started me thinking, and so, a couple of days ago I went to see the doctor."

"All is well, I hope? You are all right?"

"Oh yes, healthy as a horse. Famished, as usual."

"Well, that's splendid. Splendid that you are quite well and not under the weather, I mean."

Foyle smiled ruefully as Sam grinned. He picked up the soft white knitted booties and ran a finger over the white silk ribbon that was threaded through the ankle for fastening.

"These are beautifully done. Did they take you long?"

"No, not long at all. I've been knitting almost since I could walk; perils of being the vicar's daughter. There's always someone in the parish who needs something making."

Not for the first time, Foyle counted his blessings.

Sam sighed happily.

"At least now I don't have to knit in secret; the baby will need quite a few more things."

"I daresay. I'm sure, however, that he or she will manage very well by the time they arrive."

"Oh, absolutely. Besides, I'm sure mother will drag out some things of mine as soon as we tell her, that and the fact that she will be knitting like mad too."

"I'm afraid I didn't keep many of Andrew's things, just his christening gown. I didn't think..."

Sam took his hand.

"No matter. I'm sure it will be fine."

Reverend Stewart's face came to Foyle's mind.

"When do you want to tell your parents?"

Sam looked a little sheepish.

"Would you mind if we didn't tell them until later in the New Year? You'll think it odd, but I would like it if it could just be the two of us for now. Well, three of us. Something to hug to ourselves for a little while longer?"

Foyle was a little relieved that he didn't have to be concerned about his father-in-law's reaction just yet.

"Yes, I can understand that, it's not odd at all. We'll wait and tell them all later. Andrew has lived this long without being a brother, he can wait a little longer."

"Gosh, yes. At least he won't have to share his toys."

Foyle smiled.

"He will be pleased about that."

"Good."

The fire popped and crackled as they settled together on the settee, comfortably warm and well fed.

After several minutes of contented contemplation, Sam stirred.

"I wish I knew where Lily has gone. I would love to have told her about the baby, especially considering..."

Foyle managed not to start in surprise. Sam had not mentioned Lily for an age.

"...Considering...?

Sam was silent for so long that Foyle thought that she wasn't going to answer, but she looked down at their joined hands resting in her lap and sighed.

"Well, without her, I'm not sure that we would have found each other."

Privately Foyle agreed with her, but he said nothing.

_Had this outcome been the reason Lily came to Hastings? _

TBC.


	26. Chapter 26

Disclaimer: Foyle's War and the original characters within the show are a copyright product and do not belong to me. No infringement is sought or intended.

Title: What Will Be - chapter 26

Author: hazeleyes57

A/N: Sorry about the delay, somewhat distracted by RL, although I know what I'd rather be doing... thank you for sticking with the fic.

What Will Be: Chapter 26

I can still hear his voice.

As I read his letters, it's as if he is reading them to me. I see the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the way he bites his lip when he is thinking, and the interrogative lift of an eyebrow. I am both happy and sad as I read. Against all my training I cling to the thought that they are alive in the past, not dead and dust.

His happiness is obvious even if he doesn't say it overtly. The birth of their children, the arrival of a dog -

I back-tracked over that last. A _dog?_

_...Sam asked for a dog, she said that it was essential for children to have a confidante for things they couldn't – or wouldn't – share with their parents. I said that we couldn't have one, there wasn't enough room, but matters overtook our discussion when a small Heinz variety that we discovered scavenging in the dustbin found room in our hearts shortly before it became room under the kitchen table..._

My skin frizzed with goosebumps.

I _heard_ him say that they didn't have room for a dog. _He told me so himself._

What the heck was going on?

After having made myself a hot drink, I returned to bed and the letters. Sometimes the dates leapt forward in years, sometimes only a few months and I eagerly devoured the news, dreading - in more than one way - the last envelope.

But when I did get to it, it was more of a shock than I was anticipating.

It was from Sam.

When Mike came home I was in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches to dinner. He came straight to me, or rather the saucepan I was holding, with all the direction of zealot.

"Something smells wonderful, what are you up to?"

As he had come up behind me, kissed the back of my neck and slid his hands around my returning waist before dropping his chin on my shoulder, I could forgive him his single-minded food fervour.

I stirred the sauce one more time and covered it with a lid.

"This is dinner. A dinner for us, alone and uninterrupted, seeing as how Grammas seems to have kidnapped our son."

Mike stilled guiltily.

"Ah."

I turned in his arms, smiling to let him know that he wasn't in trouble.

"It's okay. You did good. I've slept all afternoon. So I thought I'd fix dinner to show how grateful I am that I have such a thoughtful man in my life. However he couldn't make it, so you can eat it instead."

"What?"

He caught up quickly and grinned, as I knew he would.

"Ha-ha, very funny."

Mike looked at me and we shared a 'moment'. Non-verbal conversations we were in tune enough to understand. He kissed me 'hello' very nicely.

"Do I have time for a quick shower?"

"Only if you go alone."

He turned at the door and smirked.

"Hold that thought."

He was back in ten minutes in fresh clothes, obviously invigorated by the shower. He was my Mike again. I took him through to the dining room end of the big front room and he looked at the table, set out for a romantic evening.

"This looks wonderful. Should I be worried?"

Although his words were light, his eyes asked me the real question. As usual when things got heavy, I turned to humour.

"It depends, I guess. I did briefly think that I should leave you and take Jonathan, but then I thought of all that peace and quiet that you'd have to endure and I couldn't leave you that happy, so we're staying. So sit, and I'll bring through the food."

Mike grabbed my hand as I turned back to the kitchen. He pulled me into his embrace and kissed me.

"It would be quiet, but there would be no peace without you."

As usual, he knew exactly what to say to me. The man read my mind. We held each other for the longest moment and I willed my soppy tears not to fall. I love this man so much.

"Now, woman, fetch my food, I'm starved."

I'd forgotten the food completely.

Just as I was bringing the filled plates into the dining room, Mike looked up from pouring the wine. The strangest feeling of deja-vu swept over me. Mike looked concerned when I stopped dead in the doorway.

"Darling...?"

I shook off the sensation and placed our food on the table.

"It's nothing, I just had the feeling that we'd done exactly this thing before, which is stupid, because we've had lots of meals here like this."

Mike looked at the table settings and at the bottle in his hand.

"Well, not exactly like this. The candles, the wine, the fancy china, and just the two of us. Usually there's more family..."

He frowned as he trailed off and looked at the table again. His face cleared and his grin was back.

"It does feel familiar. But it's in a good way."

He was standing behind my chair and pulled it out to seat me. He took his own seat and picked up his wineglass.

He took my hand in his free one.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Mike didn't let go of my hand.

"I don't mean for this. I mean, this is nice, but it isn't what I was thanking you for. I mean _thank you_, for everything. You, me, Jonathan, _everything_."

Ah, _now_ I got it.

_God, more tears?_

Mike got a watery grin, but his eyes looked suspiciously shiny too.

"You're still welcome."

We ate the meal but hardly noticed, I think, because we were talking, laughing, and reminding ourselves what it was like to be on a date again. We moved to the sofa with our drinks to let the first course go down. It was fun to have the guilt free time to ourselves. A couple of hours passed in no time and I felt very mellow. I wasn't the wine, as I'd had alcohol free for Junior's meal requirements, but the atmosphere was relaxed, the talk convivial, and I was thoroughly enjoying myself.

"Penny for them?"

"Mmm?"

"You were smiling..."

"Was I? Not surprised...this feels like a date and I was just thinking how much fun I'm having."

Mike's grin turned delightfully lascivious. He waggled his eyebrows in evil letch fashion and twirled a non-existent moustache.

"A date, my dear? This is no 'date'. This is a seduction, a prelude to getting my evil way with you."

"Your evil way with me?"

"Yes. I plan to get into your knickers before the evening is over."

I laughed but privately acknowledged the thrill of anticipation that shot through me.

"You old romantic."

Spooned behind me as we lay on the sofa, Mike's arms tightened around me.

"Yup."

One of his hands rested on my leg, just below the hem of my dress. The hand started to drift upwards. I shivered with suppressed excitement, but I kept my tone flat.

"Ah."

Mike looked at me in concern, his hand halted. I looked down so he wouldn't see the grin I was hiding.

"Why? What?"

I sighed heavily.

"Well, if I'd known you wanted to get into my knickers, I would have worn some..."

There was about two seconds of dead silence.

"You are not wearing...?"

"Nope."

"So all through the meal and while we've been talking, you had nothing on under...?"

"Ahuh."

The wandering hand slid up under my dress. I gasped aloud. His touch was electric.

"_Kerrist. _It's a good job I didn't know. Dinner would have gone cold."

I turned in his arms and smirked as I reached for his zipper.

"The dessert is cold..."

He growled,

"It damn well will be by the time we're ready for it."

He was right.

January 1948 

"Happy New Year, Sam."

"Happy New Year, darling!"

Sam Foyle kissed her husband; her first kiss of the New Year, and the first, she sincerely hoped, of many more kisses and New Years together.

Although they both had a lot to be thankful for, and people to share it with them, they had both preferred to stay at home for last night's celebrations. Sam admitted that she thought everyone would guess at her news and wanted it to be between the two of them just a little bit longer, and although Foyle was pleased about the baby in his quietly understated way, he also knew that there would be some not-so-subtle nudges and winks among his friends and former colleagues.

Sam scooted against his side in the bed and slid her arm across his stomach. Foyle recognised the familiar gleam in her eyes. He kept his smirk to a small grin, feeling a rush of love for his wife. He put his arm around her shoulders and held her close.

"Why do I get the impression that it will be a while before we get any breakfast?"

Sam grinned widely. She loved it when she didn't always have to use words to tell him what she would like. She toyed with the buttons on his pyjama top. The top one slipped undone.

"Well, it occurs to me that we don't have to worry about getting in the family way now, so I thought we could have some..._fun._"

Foyle looked at with a small frown.

"Don't we usually have fun?"

Realising that she might have unintentionally upset him, she hurried to explain.

"Oh, _always,_ but that's for _me. _It's just that I've noticed occasionally that you have slightly less of it than I do, because you're being careful. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

Foyle's frown cleared. He should have realised that she would notice.

"No, I didn't think that, I simply thought it would be nice not to rush straight into a honeymoon baby. Have you to myself for just a little while, y'know?"

"Yes, I do, and I appreciated the thoughtfulness of it, honestly..."

A second button slipped undone with Sam's assistance.

"...but I think we should make the most of the time we have to _not_ be careful."

The third button slipped free and the jacket parted.

Sam smiled cheekily.

"Don't you agree?"

He did.

_Twice._

Mike had gone to work but I had one last thing I wanted to do before I went to collect Jonathan.

I opened the letter from Sam with fingers that trembled. I knew that there would be a last letter, but...I guess I simply hadn't wanted to think about it.

_Alive in the past. _

Sam's handwriting was spiky and heavily as if her emotions were high when she wrote the letter. I quelled the urge to skip through to find out why I had such a strong feeling of dread.

_Dear Lily,_

_I had no idea why Christopher should be keeping such an odd diary to you when he first told me about it. I don't think he would have told me at all, except that I came home from shopping unexpectedly early – I'd forgotten my purse – and found him with the floorboard up. _

_At first I was angry. I loved him before he met you. How dare he love you? But when he explained – without apology, for there was nothing to apologise for – I realised that, rather than take him from me, you had enabled Christopher to be free to love me, and for that I shall always be grateful. _

_I just wish that there was some way I could tell you how much you gave to the both of us. I'm not sure even why I'm doing this - it's not as if you will ever read my letter - it's just that since he was killed - _

What? _Killed? _

He died of old age in his nineties. Sam never married again. I'm sure of it.

What the frack is going on?

I continued reading.

_...I feel so lost. I miss him __so__ much. I don't know how to carry on, but I shall have to for the children; they are so young and I'm devastated that they will not have their father in their lives..._

Something is terribly wrong. Christopher attended all three of his children's weddings. I remember it from Sam's diary...

I went through all the letters again, looking at their dates. I looked at the date on Sam's letter. I got up from the floor and immediately got in contact with Mike at work.

"Hi, honey, this is -"

I cut in.

"Is this line secure?"

The momentary silence reassured me that Mike was all business.

"Yes. What's up?"

"Something's gone wrong. I have to go back."

He didn't pretend not to know what I was talking about.

"You can't. It's not allowed."

"I know that. But I still have to go."

"You can't without authorisation."

"I'm betting I can."

The was a thick silence from the other end of the line.

"Why?"

It was then that it dawned on me what I'd been keeping back from Mike without even thinking about it.

_How could I explain that half of the letters Christopher had written to me were dated after he had been killed when I hadn't even told Mike about the box or the letters?_

TBC.


	27. Chapter 27

Disclaimer: Foyle's war is a copyright product and does not belong to me. No infringement intended.

Author: hazeleyes57

Rating: 12, T

Title: What Will Be ch 27

A/N: Short chapter, still a WIP.

What will be Chapter 27

1948

"Darling? It's only me, I forgot my purse when I changed handbags."

Foyle startled guiltily at the unexpected sound of the front door and his wife.

"Christopher? Where _are _you?"

Sam's voice from the bottom of the stairs. He heard distinctive sound of the squeaky second step. She was coming up.

He hadn't anticipated her return for at least another hour. He was about to drop the box back in the hole, but he realised that he'd never get it all tidied up before Sam walked in the bedroom. He sat back on his haunches and waited for his wife to appear. It was about time he told her anyway; he hadn't liked keeping it from her.

She appeared in the doorway, looking a little surprised, presumably, about his position on the floor.

"What's wrong? Have we got a leaky pipe?"

"No, no, nothing like that. Please come and sit down, I need to tell you something."

"I say, that sounds serious."

Sam sat down on the bed's edge and Foyle got up and sat next to her.

She absently smoothed a hand over her five month bump. She often stroked it without conscious thought and Foyle found it very endearing, as if she was patting the baby's head in comfort.

"Are you all right?"

Sam looked surprised.

"Of course, just a bit forgetful; I seem so easily distracted these days."

Foyle nodded. He looked at the metal box in his hands.

"You remember Lily?"

"Of course I do. What has she got to do with a hole in the floor?"

Foyle explained that Lily had left a letter, probably not expecting it to be found, but that he had found it and had been leaving letters for her, telling her what they were doing and how things were working out.

"...a little like a diary, I suppose. I just – it seems foolish, Lily will never know, but I..."

Sam's hand took hold of his, and she smiled gently.

"A little odd, but no more foolish than my father putting 'Dear Santa' notes up the chimney before Christmas, I suppose."

Foyle smiled.

"No, I suppose not."

Sam was quiet for a long moment, clearly deep in thought. Finally she squeezed his hand as a prelude to speech.

"I don't want or need to read the letters, Christopher, but I want to ask you one question, to which I would like an honest answer."

"Anything, my dear. No more secrets."

_A small lie, but a necessary one._

"Did you love her?"

Foyle thought about it; it was more complex than a stark 'yes' or 'no', but Sam deserved the truth.

"Yes, I...yes."

Sam looked down at her feet and he wondered if he had made an error of judgement when she pulled her hand away from his and put it to her lips, almost as if she wanted to stem back any words that might escape in the spur of the moment. Foyle was further distressed to see that silent tears were now sliding down her cheeks.

"Sam?"

"Please...don't. I...can't, please just give me a minute."

"Sam..."

"I asked for honesty and I got it, now I have to deal with it. Please...just leave me alone."

With reluctance in every line of his body, Foyle left the room.

Grammas agreed to keep Jonathan with her for a little longer. How much longer would be anyone's guess. For the first time in my life I was really worried about the outcome of a field trip. Back when I was overseeing other trips, it didn't seem so personal, I didn't think that I had so much to lose, but now it was different somehow. Which is stupid when you think of the size of my family, really.

I went in to meet Mike at work during his break. It was a sunny day, so we walked outside the operations base and along the seafront. I didn't want to chance anyone hearing our discussion.

Mike looked the most solemn I think I'd ever seen him. He just hugged me for a minute, not saying anything.

He pulled back and searched my face.

"Jonathan?"

"With Grammas. She'll look after him until I call her. Or you do."

The unspoken acknowledgement was 'whichever one of us is still alive'. Mike nodded wearily.

"Did you find anything?"

I wasn't sure from his expression if it was bad news, or catastrophic news when he nodded.

"You were right. There's been a Divergence. We have two conflicting sets of data from 1950."

_Oh shit._

My legs feel weak and watery.

"What?"

Mike's hands parted left and right. He nodded to one side then the other.

"He lived to a ripe old age. He didn't."

"But what happened?"

"It's not clear. Some sort of vehicle accident."

Remembering Chris' reluctance to drive, had he been behind the wheel?

"Was Foyle driving?"

Mike shook his head.

"No, quite the opposite. He was hit by a car."

I felt sick.

"_Was _it an accident?"

"It would appear so."

I had the weirdest feeling that Mike was keeping something back. He looked as sick as I felt.

But then he looked at me as my engineer, not my husband.

"How did you know?"

I felt shifty and evasive, but there was nothing for it, I'd have to confess.

"Are they listening?"

He knew what I meant. Are the Powers That Be listening?

He shook his head

"Not unless I don't know about it, but I brought marmy. Just in case."

Despite the seriousness I nearly smiled. The low frequency jamming gizmo that prevented pretty much all technology from eavesdropping on us was nicknamed marmalade, or marmy for short, as a play on 'jam'.

"Lily?"

His prompt wasn't needed, I just didn't know how to tell him I'd let everyone down.

_Quickly, I guess, like ripping off an old-fashioned plaster._

"I left a letter for Christopher hidden in the house. He found it..."

Mike frowned and I felt really awful that I'd disappointed him. And probably hurt him, too.

"And..?"

"He's – he was - one smart cookie. He doesn't know for sure where I'm from, but he sussed without saying it, that I wasn't...er...local."

Mike stiffened.

Frack; he is majorly angry.

"_And?"_

_He even has that blasted interrogative eyebrow._

"...and he wrote several letters, leaving them in the same place for me. Some of the letters left were dated after he was supposedly dead."

It all rushed out on one breath, almost as if I kinda hoped it would pass by him unnoticed.

"Fuck."

Yep. Couldn't have put it better myself.

"I'm sorry."

"You damn well should be."

But he grabbed me in a sort of desperate hug that told me I wasn't completely up a creek and paddle-less. I felt a soul sigh of relief that he still loved me. It made me brave – or foolish.

"What aren't you telling me?"

Mike eased me away from him and looked me in the eyes again.

"I'll have to report it soon, but I wanted to warn you to be prepared..."

I felt sick again.

"...from what I can tell, the original timeline, the one you initially repaired, has Foyle killed at the Divergence. The time line is now correct. He fathered the children as history dictated, but he was supposed to die at that time."

"No. No! _No!_ That's wrong! He didn't die then; it's in Sam's diary. He _didn't_ die then! He _didn't!"_

I burst into tears and Mike held me. It wasn't just sorrow that had me in tears, it was blind fury. _They were so wrong!_

TBC.


	28. Chapter 28

Disclaimer: 'Foyle's War' is a trademarked product thought up by Anthony Horowitz and it does not belong to me. No infringement is intended or sought. Original characters of my own design also included.

Author: hazeleyes57

Rating: T, A, Reasonably safe for all.

A/N: Sorry for the delay, RL as usual gets in the way of fun.

What Will Be – chapter 28

1950.

Well, at least this time I didn't land on my knees or have a blinding headache.

It was the only good thing about this travel-through-a-bracelet thing that I swore I'd never do again. I searched for my small hand case and found it behind me.

It was night-time and raining. Heavily. I breathed deeply of the cool wet air and the nausea faded. I sneezed suddenly and had to grin. I don't know why, it just seemed funny. That made me think of Gene Kelly dancing in the rain. Gene Kelly with a feverish temperature on the day they were filming that iconic scene. He was a professional, a trouper. Did his job.

_Not like me. He didn't fall in love with someone forbidden to him, or have a baby with that someone, or fall in love all over again with someone else..._

The tang of the sea was heavy and familiar and oddly comforting. I started walking towards the coast, feeling a little more optimistic about my chances of success. If I made it home again – admittedly that was a big 'if' - I would be in a fair amount of trouble, but at least _he_ would be okay.

My other 'he' should be also be okay. The note I'd left explaining why I'd broken in (well, okay, I used my pass) to my own place of work in the middle of the night and sent myself on an unscheduled, unsupervised and unauthorised field trip – well, it didn't explain _everything,_ obviously; I didn't need to be arrested when I got back, if I got back – but I digress. The note should clear Mike with The Powers That Be, from the idea that he had helped me. Preposterous idea really; if he'd known I was coming here he would have come with me, at least as far as the chamber...actually, now I think about it, he would have stopped me, end of story.

1950. The country was still suffering the after-effects from the war, including meat and bacon still being rationed, but at least they hadn't started the slide into nuclear misery and paranoia of the sixties. My nondescript clothing should stop me from standing out in a crowd, and trousers on a woman weren't so unexpected nowadays. Pity really, I liked the fitted and flared look of the fifties. But I'd gone for the Lauren Bacall rather than the Grace Kelly look. The only downside was that Lauren Bacall went more or less straight up and down, and I, well, didn't.

Couldn't be helped.

I found a room at a local pub under the name of Lily Davis; I still had my paperwork for that name, so it seemed the best in such short notice. I ignored the look I got from the woman on the desk who was obviously wondering why I was out in the middle of the night and bad mannered enough to be dripping on her carpet.

"_One_ night?"

Miss Frosty-Tone seemed to be implying that woman who stayed only one night were obviously up to no good.

"Mm, yes. I'm travelling."

She didn't say anything, but her sniff could only be described as _disdainful. _

I signed the register and absently noticed that the date was wrong.

"Um, it says the 26th..?"

The woman's arch stare dared me to contradict her.

"Yes, that is correct. Friday 26th May 1950."

_Frack._ I'm too early. Still, in time travel terms, I suppose it was better than too late.

I gave a smile that hopefully would tell her I wasn't an escaped lunatic.

"I'm sorry, being on holiday, I've just lost track of the days. I was convinced it was...never mind. In that case, I will need to be here for three days."

Miss Frosty thawed slightly at the prospect of more money and, presumably, less naughtiness.

Five minutes later I was in the room and wondering what to do until Sunday. I had to stick around Steep Lane to intervene at the right moment, but I also had to stay out of sight. I could not afford to be seen by either Sam or Christopher. Just because I no longer had black hair didn't mean they wouldn't recognise me. I got ready for bed and slid reluctantly between the crisp cold sheets that reminded me of another occasion all together. I was not sleepy.

Another thing that I had not allowed myself to think about until now was how I could get back home. Not being an authorised visit, I had no retrieval scheduled, and even if someone figured out what I'd done, how would they know where I'd gone and most importantly, _when? _

Mike would be my best hope for the where and when; he would figure out that I wouldn't – couldn't – just let things _be. _Tomorrow morning, when he woke up and found me gone, I'd bet my life – which would be accurate – on him realising where I'd gone. But he wouldn't know when, exactly. He could guess it would be close to the day of the accident, but he would need specifics. I could post him a letter, the same way I'd posted one to Zak, but that could risk being lost or intercepted. I needed something that I knew still existed in my time that Mike could find.

Its image popped into my head immediately.

The silver trinket box.

If I could get the message to Mike in that...

It was a big 'if'. I had to get into Sam and Christopher's home unnoticed, leave the message, and get out again also without being detected, or worse, arrested. And I had to do it in the next two days.

I frowned as I remembered Mike's seeming obsession with the box. It puzzled him that he kept thinking about it. It baffled me, because it had been in my family, not his.

I was still plotting ways to get the Foyle's out of their home, temporarily, when I fell asleep. I was more tired than I thought.

1948.

Foyle heard Sam's slow tread coming down the stairs as he finished making a pot of tea. The British brew, commiseration for many a problem over the years. Making it calmed him, and he waited to see how Sam was feeling. He looked up and she was standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He pulled a chair out for her to sit down before he got the milk from the pantry.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, you..."

They had both spoken at the same time, and Sam smiled tiredly as she took the proffered chair.

"Me first, please. I'm being very silly, and I am sorry. You told me the truth, just as I asked, but I wasn't very grown up about your answer, because it was the answer I feared."

Foyle frowned.

"You...feared?"

"Although you married me, and I don't in any way doubt your love for me, I have always suspected that you loved Lily. To hear it confirmed was still a shock."

"But I love _you, _I -"

"I know, and I love you so much too, but I didn't like the idea that you could even think of anyone else. And Lily isn't just anyone, she is – was – an impossible dream of perfection, because in your mind she will never get old, or grey, or fat. She will still be that shining ideal of what might have been. I couldn't possibly compete with her."

Foyle looked at Sam, seeing perhaps more than she herself realised.

"You worry that I picked you because I couldn't have her?"

Sam looked at him in such distress that he moved around the table to sit beside her. He took her hands in his.

"You were always my impossible first choice; the one I thought that I couldn't have because I was so much older and I didn't want to spoil your life. Looking back, I wonder if part of my attraction to Lily was that she reminded me so much of you. If you had married someone else, even Andrew, God forbid, and been genuinely in love, I would never have intervened. I loved you enough to let you go. You were so young, and had so much living to do."

"So, you might have settled for Lily?"

"I wouldn't have 'settled' for her, but we might have taken some time to see where we were going."

"But you said you loved her."

"Well, to be fair you didn't really give me much leeway with a yes or no option. If we had courted, I could very easily have seen Lily as part of my life."

Sam looked at their joined hands. He was so very dear to her, she loved him so much.

"I've been _so_ silly."

"Not at all. I'm very flattered. Two woman after me, who would have thought?"

Sam hiccupped a laugh, and sniffed inelegantly.

"Foyle's are hard to resist, apparently."

Foyle smiled.

"So I've heard."

Church.

Everyone went to church on Sunday, there was almost nothing else to do and most places would be closed for the day, even on the coast.

So, it would be cutting it fine, but I'd have to make my move on Sunday morning, straight after the family had left for the morning service. I still had my lock picks. The front of the house was very exposed, but the back would be impossible.

With the church in mind, I went out for a walk. Being a Saturday, there seemed to be a lot of people about, but I realised that there was hardly any traffic. Was this why Christopher had been taken aback so far as to end up being hit by a car? Their presence was that rare?

I found myself walking through the graveyard, but I had not consciously thought about what I was looking for until I found it.

_Rosalind Foyle_

_1902 - 1932_

_R.I.P._

Only thirty. No age at all. I wonder if she was aware at the end, worried about her husband and son, wondering how they would cope. I thought of Mike and little Jonathan. I suddenly realised how selfish I'd been. I wanted to save a man who had already been dead for a long time, and was willing to sacrifice the time I could have had with my family to do it.

I felt rather weepy all of a sudden, most unlike me. The old me, anyway.

I wanted to leave some flowers at the grave, but it looked well-tended, and with tomorrow being Sunday, there was always the possibility that Christopher might visit the grave and notice fresh flowers had been left. Instead, I picked a few daisies and sprinkled them over the grave. They looked sufficiently as if they had arrived there quite by chance.

_You and me both._

I sighed and turned to leave.

And was horrified to see Christopher coming up the path towards me. I managed to stop myself from running off like a loony and attracting his attention, but the grave yard was very open, with almost nowhere to hide.

Fortunately he was looking down at the child whose hand he held. The pretty little auburn-haired girl was toddling confidently, and chattering away. She looked about two, which was what I would have expected of his daughter. I couldn't make out what she was saying, but her high treble and the responding base tones were happy. This little girl was my link to the family, my many-great grandmother.

I took all that in in an instant as I turned my back to them, frantically looking for an escape. I dawdled away without haste from the pair, steadily making progress over the uneven ground and mentally apologising for the all the graves I was stepping on. I managed to get to the lynch gate and scuttle off without anyone calling after me. Thoroughly shaken, I went back to my room at the pub and vowed to eat in my room tonight.

The following morning I was almost too nervous to eat, but managed some toast and scrambled eggs. I packed my small bag and made sure that no trace of me was left in the room. I sat down to write Mike the note that might save me. I had to word it so that it meant nothing to anyone else, but that would be notable for Mike.

I folded the note as small as I could and set off for Casa Foyle. I double checked the time, and gave it an extra ten minutes before I ambled along to Steep Lane. I was considerably reassured to see the Foyle's set off _en famille, _and waited yet again. Fortunately the weather was still wet and most of the people rushed along with their eyes on the ground, intent on getting under cover again. After a long look around, I hurried up to the Foyle's front door and knocked gently. There was no answer, thankfully, and it was the work of a moment to get the door open. After a quick look up and down the lane, I slipped inside the house and shut the door behind me. I wiped my feet to make sure there would be no tell-tale water marks on the floor as I took in the familiar smell of the house.

It was different, naturally, from my last visit. The place had been redecorated and smelled faintly of beeswax. There was a definite sense of a 'woman's touch' present and the house felt welcoming and happy. I suddenly realised that I was smiling.

I shook myself out of la-la land and looked for the trinket box. I had to hurry, I wasn't sure when the family would be back and I had no idea if Chris would have kept the box out or not. I just hoped that it wasn't under the floorboards!

It wasn't downstairs. Feeling like an interloper and a thief I trotted up the stairs – making myself jump on a squeaky step on the way – and headed for the main bedroom.

Thankfully it was easy to spot the box straightaway. Sam was keeping her earrings in it on the dressing table. I tipped the earrings out on the bed counterpane and upended the box, looking for a safe hiding place. There was nothing on the outside, so I pulled up the stiffened baize lining the base and stuck the note inside. Tucking the baize back into place it didn't look as if it had been disturbed. I only hoped that Mike would find it. I quickly stuffed the earrings back inside and placed the box back on the dresser.

Two seconds later my blood almost froze in my veins. I heard the front door open and moments later the squeaky stair tread. Brisk steps coming this way. I looked around and there was nowhere to hide, I didn't have time. How ironic.

Five seconds later I held my breath as Christopher entered the bedroom, went straight to one of the dressing table drawers and took out a ladies small handkerchief and a bigger white square of a man's one. He seemed to hesitate for a moment and I didn't move a muscle as I stood behind the open door. I willed him to leave without noticing me. If he turned around and saw me, there would be no way to explain my being here.

Agonizingly long hours later – which was probably three seconds in actuality – Christopher turned and left the bedroom. I only started to breathe again when I heard that wonderful squeak on the stairs and the bang of the front door. I gave it another five minutes for him to get back to the church and tip-toed back downstairs. I had to unlock the door again to get out and relock it again after me, but luck or the gods of time-travel were on my side and I made it across the road to the footpath that went between the houses and down to the beach near the net sheds. Adrenalin had my hands shaking and my heart thumping, but I felt giddy and glad to be alive. I could see why adrenalin junkies went in for this sort of thing.

Tea and a bun on the seafront would have calmed me nicely, but it was Sunday and everything was shut. The sea looked muddy and the sky was still grey, although at least the rain had stopped. I figured I had about forty minutes before Christopher and Sam returned home, but it suddenly occurred to me that he could have left the church again before the service ended. Supposing he had been knocked down on his way for the hankies? Or on his way back? I had been lucky so far, but I ought to get back up to Steep Lane and _sharpish._

I stuck my case in someone's front garden on Croft Terrace, hiding it under a bushy green shrub. If I had to make a quick exit, I could grab it on the way past without too much bother. I walked back up to Steep Lane and wished I'd had the foresight to bring a hat, partly to hide my hair but also to keep off the drizzle, which had started again. The road was wet and slippery and my stomach churned with nerves. I also kept an eye out for anyone I could spot from my own time, just in case they sent someone after me, which wasn't as unlikely as I hoped it would be. I looked at my watch and sighed. It was difficult to window shop when there were no shops, so if anyone was watching, they would wonder what I was up to, wandering up and down the lane. Only three cars went past me in nearly an hour and my legs were aching. I had just perched against someone's low garden wall when I heard another car enter the top of the lane. Something about the car caught my attention and I realised that unlike the other cars, this one was making no effort to go slowly down the narrow lane. The driver's face as the car sailed past me was a picture of panic. His arms were braced on the steering wheel and he was shouting something that I couldn't hear. I was up and running in an instant.

_He had no brakes._

I looked ahead expecting to see Christopher's oblivious back to me, but to my horror it was a flash of auburn hair and white dress that ran out into the road.

_No wonder he stepped in the path of a car; who would not, to save their child?_

TBC.


	29. Chapter 29

Disclaimer: Foyle's War is a trademarked product that does not belong to me. Characters used for entertainment purposes only and will be returned undamaged. No infringement is intended.

Rating: T or A

Author : hazeleyes57

A/N: Penultimate chapter, nearly done, and this time I mean it! Thanks for joining me on this journey, I hope you've enjoyed it so far.

What Will Be – Chapter 29

1950

The car honked its horn repeatedly and I heard shouting as people who had recently left the church looked on in horror. I ran for all I was worth and yet still felt like I was in treacle. Running downhill in reality, I could feel the momentum begin to overtake me as I passed the runaway vehicle. The child was still happily oblivious but I saw the flap of a man's coat ahead of me.

_Too late too late tooolate..._

The child was scooped up. Foyle kept moving but he knew he'd lost too much speed to avoid a collision. In the instant I saw his face before he turned away, I knew he had made peace with the fact that he had traded his life for hers.

I was almost flying; running so fast I couldn't have stopped if I'd tried. Without thinking, I leapt off the kerb just ahead of the car and careened into Foyle in a momentum-laded rugby tackle that would have made all of Wales proud. I hung on like grim death to the fabric of his coat and prayed.

For a long moment I felt as if we were suspended in mid air, not breathing, not seeing, or hearing anything, just held in time and space while the universe turned. It was almost peaceful.

In a rush of sound and fury, reality caught up and we hit the ground very hard. My left shoulder took the brunt of it, but my head hit the pavement and my ears rang. Startled blue eyes above me revealed shock and the incomprehension of the fact that they were still alive. Hands tore urgently at us as bystanders pulled us apart to see if we were all right and the sound of a child crying lustily was music to my ears.

Sam rushed to her husband and child as quickly as she was able. The last thing she needed at six months pregnant was to find herself a widow.

In all the fuss around Christopher, Sam and their daughter, it was relatively easy to move aside and let everyone get on with it. The car had crashed into the steps leading to number ten and twelve; the stone had survived better than the car, and the driver better than both, although he looked to me like he'd broken his nose. I tried to put my left hand out to push myself up, but nearly passed out at the pain in my shoulder. I think it must have dislocated; I hope to heaven it's not broken.

I managed to get to my feet and figure out which direction I was facing. I dared not look back at the still-intact family, just in case I locked eyes with a far too perceptive detective. I felt sick with relief, excess adrenaline and shock. Did I mention the pain? Someone tried to stop me moving away, but I kept going, even though I heard Christopher – _Foyle _– call out for me to wait. I must have smiled and said all the right things to the crowd because I managed to get away and up to the garden where I'd stashed my case.

I grabbed it with my good arm and headed for Alexander Park.

_Deja Vu._

At least this time I wouldn't have to crawl through the hedge.

"She's asleep at last, poor thing's worn out – with all the excitement of daddy and the flying lady. Doesn't give tuppence about the accident."

Sam sighed heavily.

"Are you _sure _you're all right?"

Foyle looked up from his favourite armchair and allowed a tinge of fond exasperation to colour his tone.

"My dear Sam, we have been over this several times already. I am fine. You are the one who should be sitting down. We've all had a shock today, but all's well that ends well."

Sam didn't look convinced, but she allowed herself to be mollified and sank down onto the sofa. Absently she took up her knitting and continued the little sleeve for a matinee jacket.

"That's easy for you to say, I had to watch it all unfold, knowing that there was nothing I could do. If it hadn't been for the mystery woman..."

Foyle frowned. The mystery woman. The mystery red-head, no less.

"Yes, without her intervention it could have been quite a different story."

"I just wish she had stayed and let us thank her. How odd of her to rush off, don't you think? Why didn't she stay?"

Foyle regarded the gently swirling amber-coloured drink in his tumbler – Sam had earlier pressed the Scotch into his hand without a word - and asked himself the same question.

"I don't know, I'm simply grateful that she did."

Sam allowed her knitting to fall to what remained of her lap.

"Absolutely. I just wanted to...thank her..."

Her voice wobbled at the end of her sentence. Quickly placing his drink on the table, Foyle was beside her in a moment, despite his bruised and sore body. He gathered her in his arms, giving her time to recover. Since having their first child, sleeping so innocently unaware upstairs, Sam's stiff upper lip had developed a soft spot or two. He didn't mind at all, but she didn't like to appear weak. He reached into a pocket and retrieved a handkerchief, pressing it into her hand. She accepted it and gave him a watery grin.

"I'll get makeup all over it."

"Never mind, it will wash."

Foyle hesitated, suddenly reminded of a similar conversation with Lily.

_Lily._

Lily, who was a natural redhead. He recalled as if it were yesterday the moment he searched for a bump after she banged her head under the stairs. The titian glint on the strands of hair closest to her scalp. Without guilt he also recalled the afternoon that they had spent together – while a woman might dye the hair on her head, they did not, in his admittedly limited experience, dye hair elsewhere on their body.

Sam, attuned to him, noticed his distraction.

"What is it?"

Foyle brought his focus back to the present and smiled reassuringly.

"Nothing, nothing at all. I just had a thought about how we might go about finding my rescuer."

Sam sat up straight, intrigued.

"Really?"

"Mmm. Will you be all right if I go out for a short while?"

He was just as attuned to her, and he suppressed a smile at the conflict on her face. She wanted to come with him, but knew that she had to stay.

"You'll be careful?"

"Of course. I shouldn't be too long."

Sam followed him into the hall and waited while he donned his outdoor things. She smoothed his scarf affectionately, then kissed him.

"If you find her, give her my thanks too."

"Of course."

Present Day

"You busy?"

Mike looked up from his computer and frowned at the Chief of the department standing in the doorway.

"Umm, nothing that can't wait a few minutes, if necessary."

"It's necessary."

The gruff tone indicated trouble ahead even if he hadn't jerked his head, indicating a desire for privacy.

With a building sense of unease, Mike followed the Chief to his office. The latter cut to the chase.

"There was an unauthorised field trip last night."

"_What?"_

His obvious surprise seemed oddly to calm the Chief.

"Someone overrode the safety protocols and left here at 01:57 last night. Do you know anything about it?"

With an increasing sense of foreboding, Mike shook his head.

"No, no I don't..." he shook his head, genuinely puzzled. "...hang on; why didn't the trip show up in this morning's logs?"

The Chief looked at his desk and straightened a couple of things as if they were suddenly quite important.

"That's not your business at the moment -"

"The hell it isn't! If someone is messing with the equipment then we have a security breach and _everything_ could be compromised. I'll get a system check started and then-"

Mike had half turned for the door but the Chief's next words stopped him cold.

"They used Lily's keycard."

"How's that even possible? She's not on active duty, her card should be disabled while she's..."

His voice trailed off.

_I need to go back._

The Chief didn't seem to notice his distraction.

"It's already being looked into. Apparently the security scans were disabled at the same time. A routine maintenance glitch, if they are to be believed."

_So they didn't know that it was Lily using her own card._

"Do we know where or when?"

"No. They scrambled the programming selection. Wherever they've gone, I don't think they planned on coming back. Not unless someone else knows exactly where and when they need Retrieval."

Mike's stomach contracted into a cold hard lump. _Lily wasn't coming back._

He thought he was about to throw up on the Chief's floor, but gritted his teeth until the wave passed. He didn't trust himself to speak, but fortunately the Chief wasn't finished.

"All field trips are suspended until the system check is finished. Take some personal time; go home and be with your wife and son, you might as well take advantage of the rest."

Mike nodded and left with alacrity.

But he didn't go home, he returned to his desk and checked carefully to see if Lily had left him any clue as to what she had done. He was cursing himself silently – Lily had taken the news that Foyle died so badly, he should have known that she would try something this monumentally _fracking_ stupid. He was also furious with her. She had chosen to sacrifice her family – _him _– and their future, to save a man that had been dead for years.

His fingers trembled with both anger and fear as he looked up the date of Foyle's death.

_Oh fracking hell!_

It was the date that had become true after the first field trip, before they discovered the Divergence.

Mike slumped back in his chair, staring at the screen in dismay.

Lily had done it. She'd changed it back and died doing it.

_I hope it was fracking worth it._

1950.

Foyle had no real idea where the mystery woman had gone, but instinct drove him to the park where he had last seen her before.

_Her._

_Why not call her by her name, if 'Lily' was indeed her real name._

He had been intimate with her, emotionally and physically, and the woman who saved his life and that of his daughter, was familiar to him. His body remembered her; that one glimpse of her startled eyes had told him the truth even if he had been unable to take it in at the time.

_Time._

His pace increased with the thought that she could already be gone again. His only comfort was that somehow she had survived when he _knew_ that she had died right in front of him.

He entered the park as if simply having a constitutional around the Spring flower beds. The light rain that still had not let up kept the children away, and there were only a few people with leashed dogs some distance away from the entrance. Casually, as if he had no concerns in the least, Foyle walked along the path, but he was scanning the grass either side of the path for any sign that the wet grass had been disturbed.

It took a few minutes, but when he reached the bend in the path that was at the closest point to the trees, he saw the tell-tale scuff marks of recent use on the grass. After a careful glance around ensured he wouldn't be observed, Foyle made his way quickly into the tree line where he was immediately hidden from sight.

He remained still for a moment and listened intently. There was no sound other than the infrequent pat of raindrops on the overhead leaf canopy. It was drier underfoot and darker under the trees, which made it more difficult to track anything, but not impossible. The birds were quiet, which made him believe his quarry was not far away.

He moved with care through the undergrowth, ducking occasionally as he used the path probably beaten by numerous young feet playing hide-and-seek. His eyes adjusted to the green gloom and he could see more easily. A twig snapped up ahead and sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet. Foyle moved off to the right and circled back to try to get ahead of – hopefully – Lily.

A fleeting glimpse of movement to his left was the only warning he got as a suitcase swung at his head. He only just managed to dive out of its way, his 'oof' of surprise as he hit the ground matched by one of pain from his assailant as they fell on top of him. His arms automatically grasped the struggling figure trying to get up.

"Lily, _stop!"_

The struggling ceased abruptly.

"_Chris?" _

"You were expecting someone else?"

Present Day

Mike gave up at work and returned home, but there was no comfort there. The house felt too empty and quiet without Lily and Jonathan bringing the place to life.

He knew he ought to contact Grammas and collect Jonathan, but he couldn't face explaining why Lily wouldn't ever be coming home just yet. He hadn't even accepted it himself, so how could he explain..?

How could Lily do this to them? He had no doubts at all about the strength of her love for family, he saw it every day in her eyes, felt it every day in her touch. He was convinced that if there was a way to tell him what she had done, where she needed him to find her, she would have done it.

He went upstairs to their bedroom and stood looking down at the messy bed that he'd left only a few hours ago. He took the note Lily had left from the bedside table and re-read it.

_Errands to run sweetie, back soon as I can, kiss J for me, love you soooooo much! L xxxx_

Even that must have been a lie, lulling him into a false sense of security. He thought he'd talked her out of the stupid notion to go back and rescue a dead man. He screwed the note up in fury and threw it across the room.

It wasn't enough.

Both agonised and livid, he swept his arm across the bedside table, dashing his water glass, lamp, alarm and the trinket box to the floor, uncaring whether the water soaked the rug or anything else.

_Damn this house and curse her for wanting to live here. Why couldn't she just let him go?_

That was the really sad part - he actually understood. If it were Lily, and he had to save her, if he possibly could, wouldn't he do everything – anything – in his power to get her back?

But she was supposed to feel that way about _him_, not Foyle. They were soulmates, he knew it and so did she.

_Together forever._

Mike crawled onto the bed and pulled Lily's pillow into his face. He perfume engulfed him, sparking memories so vivid they were painful in intensity. Lily, laughing, crying, having their baby, making love, cooking, arguing, _everything,_ a kaleidoscope of colour and love.

He mumbled into the pillow as he lay there, half out of his mind and lost in his misery.

"_Love always."_

TBC.


	30. Chapter 30

Disclaimer: Foyle's War is a trademarked product that does not belong to me. Characters used for entertainment purposes only and will be returned undamaged. No infringement is intended.

Author: hazeleyes57

Rating: T or 14+ Nothing too fruity.

A/N: A continuation from the last chapter. As usual I start with an apology about the delay in posting, but RL has kicked me somewhat around the head lately and I couldn't get going again. Also, I appeared a trifle optimistic when I said Ch 29 was the penultimate chapter – the dance these guys are doing is taking their own sweet time, no pun intended, so it's still a WIP. Many thanks for your continued support and all the reviews; they make my day, every day.

What Will Be – Chapter 30

1950

That dry tone was so familiar it was as if I'd heard it yesterday.

I looked down into Chris' face and relaxed. It _was_ him.

And I'd just tried to knock his brains out. Oopsy.

"Would you mind..?"

He indicated with a hand to let me know that he would be grateful if I got off him.

I grinned down at him.

"Are you calling me fat?"

He appeared momentarily puzzled at my question, but then raised that famous single brow.

"Not at all; it would make me both rude and a liar."

"Heaven forfend!"

In the adrenaline rush of combat I'd set aside the pain in my shoulder, but it rushed back to remind me when I tried to move off Chris. My grunt of pain couldn't be helped as I rolled on to my right side.

I felt his hands gently examine my shoulder before he stood up and helped me to my feet.

"It doesn't appear to be broken. My guess would be a dislocation; you need to be treated in hospital."

"No can do."

_Perplexed eyebrows. How does he do that?_

"Pardon?"

"We both know I can't go to a hospital, I'll be found. I shouldn't be here."

His voice was a model of calm reason.

"But here you are, and injured. We don't have to use your real name...whatever it is."

_Touché. _

I huffed, amused. Still no flies on this guy. I sobered. If I was stuck here, what did it matter?

"It's Rose."

I got both eyebrows that time.

"Really? How extraordinary."

"Why?"

He looked amused.

"You should read your notes. The child you saved today was my daughter, _Rose._"

I shook my head and the pain rocketed up into my head and down my back. I suddenly felt sick and dizzy, which is only reason I can use to explain my blabbermouth.

"She lived; _you_ saved her."

Chris appeared to loom over me suddenly until what little brain cells I'd got running realised that it was me falling into him. I gave my opinion on the matter, as always.

"Uurrgh."

And that was it from me.

Present Day.

Mike found himself standing at the bedroom window in front of a mirror he didn't own. His hand was resting on the trinket box, which was open and filled with a jumble of earrings. He frowned. Lily didn't use this for earrings, he was certain. At least, he thought he was. Certain, that is. Something wasn't quite right, but he was too fuzzy to figure out what it was. He'd have to ask Lily. Thank God, he could ask her. For some reason he thought she was missing, but it was all a mistake, it was okay, she was...

Where exactly?

He looked up, saw her reflection in the mirror and froze.

Why was she hiding from him? He shook his head, but her image remained. He tried to turn to her but he now seemed stuck. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't call out to her to ask what was going on. Only his eyes could move and they returned to the trinket box.

1950

Foyle caught Lily – _Rose –_ as she slumped forward and managed to stop her falling to the ground. Even in the gloom she looked as pale as milk, but what surprised him the most was that she didn't look a day older than the last time he saw her in this park. He lowered her to the ground, mindful of her shoulder, checked the pulse at her wrist, then collected his hat and her case and waited. He couldn't possibly carry her and her case back to the house without drawing far too much attention. He understood her reasons for not going to hospital even if he didn't agree with them. He would give her a few minutes to return to consciousness, and if she didn't, well then he knew what he had to do.

The Lily – she would always be Lily to him – he had known as a brunette did look different as a red-head, but Foyle realised now what had - at the time - contributed to the sense of her being 'just a little off-kilter'. Although he knew a little of the private alchemy women went through with their pots and potions, he did know how to appreciate the final results, albeit unconsciously, and Lily's dark hair and pale face had never seemed exactly right together. Seeing her now with her natural red hair it all finally made sense. Foyle smiled slightly, wondering at the way his brain worked.

Perhaps now he had a far better understanding – and indeed appreciation - of the fair skinned red-head.

Lily groaned at his feet and frowned up at him.

"_Gurgh_, what's so funny?"

He covered his relief with a dry observation.

"You're awake."

"No, I'm dreaming about our love nest under the trees. Of _course_ I'm awake."

Her tone was as grumpy as her expression, so Foyle decided to ignore the reference to a love nest. One side of his mouth lifted, despite the seriousness of their situation.

"Are you always this bad tempered when you regain consciousness?"

The mildly voiced question made one of Lily's eyebrows rise.

"You tell me, it only tends to happen around you."

Foyle smiled but made no comment. He held a hand out.

"Can you walk?"

She seemed to look inwardly as if assessing her chances. She reached up with her good arm and climbed to her feet.

"I think so. What time is it?"

"Why?"

"I need to be somewhere at six."

"Where?"

Lily looked uncertain.

"Not sure exactly. Somewhere with wood that will burn but be no danger to anyone."

Foyle looked at her.

"Umm."

Lily brushed the leaves and twigs from her clothes and hair one-handed. She looked at him with mild – and fond – exasperation.

"Now what?"

"A _fire?"_

"Only a small one, it will just get reported as 'youths messing around' but it will..."

She belatedly seemed to think better of further explanation.

But he had heard enough.

"It will pinpoint a time should you have some way of communicating with your...family?"

Lily had the grace to look chagrined.

"Something like that. Have you figured it all out?"

Foyle allowed a small smile to escape.

"Some _time_ ago, if you would allow me the small pun."

He looked at his watch.

"If you are going home again, will you come and see Sam before you go? She has often wondered what became of you."

Lily didn't answer immediately, but then sighed regretfully.

"Best not, really, much as I'd have liked to."

She looked up at him, searching his face.

"You are happy, aren't you?"

It wasn't really a question but he answered anyway.

"Yes, we both are, very much so."

Lily smiled, her eyes turning misty.

"Good. Good."

"What about you? I noticed the wedding ring. Are _you_ happy?"

He knew the moment he asked her, for her soft smile lit up her face.

"Yes. It's been a busy year."

"Only a year?"

That explained her apparent agelessness.

She nodded.

"Which reminds me, I have you to thank for that. If not for you, I wouldn't have recognised love when it hit me upside the head."

Foyle smiled ruefully, but his heart understood all too well.

"Mike?"

Lily smiled sheepishly.

"Um, yeah, seems the two of you knew before I did."

Foyle nodded once, unsurprised.

There was something else he wanted to ask, about something she said before she passed out.

"I have a question."

Lily smiled sweetly.

"What? Only one?"

Foyle inclined his head, amused. He's forgotten how much she and Sam had in common with their pithy responses.

"I...you said that Rose lived. I assume that I did...not. How will you reconcile what you have done with the truth?"

Lily didn't answer for the longest moment.

"It's too complicated to explain, but my gut instinct tells me that I've done the right thing. Sometimes that's all you can do, isn't it?"

Foyle nodded, thinking of Rex Talbot for the first time in several years. Occasionally he would look at his son Andrew and wonder, _what if...?_

Now he looked at Lily, trying to see the difference that a year had made. She looked...softer. Perhaps it was his imagination, or faulty memory, but she was different. He supposed that the nearly fatal injury would have had an effect on her, but he thought the changes he could see were positive; she was rounder, more...blooming. Like...like...Sam _after she had delivered Rose._

Had Lily had a child? Foyle was surprised at the shock that ran through him. _Why shouldn't she and Mike have a baby? After all, he and Sam -_

"You never did tell me what the time was."

Having re-checked his watch, he obliged. He kept his voice level with effort. _A baby._

"Five thirty. If you really are going to leave your shoulder untreated, you have half an hour to find your fire."

"Yes, but I need to do one more thing. Two, actually."

"How can I help?"

Present Day.

Mike sat up in confusion, wondering why he was fully dressed on top of the bed, but it only took a second to remember everything.

_Lily._

The mirror.

The trinket box.

_Time._

He looked down at the mess he had created with his temper and reached down for the trinket box. Its lid had fallen open and the lining had been splashed with water. He didn't fully understand why he was so drawn to the box, but drawn he was. He held it in both hands, willing it to tell him what he needed to know. He looked at the water marks and felt guilty. Lily would have had a cow if she had noticed it was damaged.

The grief threatened to overwhelm him again, but he pushed it back, wondering at the sense of urgency that was nagging at him.

He dried the outside of the box on the bed covers – it was only water, after all. He wondered if the bottom lining would come out to dry it better. He picked at a corner with his finger and was pleased when it lifted out. His heart nearly stopped at the small piece of folded paper tucked underneath. That same heart raced as he carefully opened the note. Thank the Gods it was dry.

Lily's handwriting!

_Richard Bach's Jonathan, XX_

Mike slumped, mystified.

How the frack did that help?

He plucked his datapad from his back pocket and searched for Richard Bach and Jonathan. The answer popped up in a fraction of a second.

'_Jonathan is that brilliant little fire that burns within us all, that lives only for those moments when we reach perfection.'_

'Fire' was a classic signal, it usually got reported even if only locally. Galvanised, Mike shot off the dry side of the bed and left at speed. He knew the date, he knew the place, soon he would know the time. He had to get to work.

He forced himself to slow down, it wouldn't do anyone any good for him to crash, and he reminded himself that they could go back to any time, there was no real sense of urgency, but he needed to hurry - even if Lily spent the rest of her life in jail, he needed her home.

1950

"How can I help?"

"A piece of paper and a pen or pencil."

Foyle had both and took them from his pocket. He held them out, but Lily shook her head as she searched for something inside her case.

"_Your_ handwriting. Just a note to tell you to hang on to the trinket box, and make sure it's handed down through the line. It must not leave the family. Promise me?"

She looked at him as she dabbed what looked like clear lipstick on her lips. By mutual unspoken agreement, they walked back to the edge of the trees where they had entered.

Frowning in thought, Foyle finished the note to himself. He wondered why Lily thought he'd forget.

"I'll see to it. And the other thing?"

The Present.

Mike knew that there was no way he would be able to Retrieve Lily on his own without sanction. He was on his way to the Chief's office when he realised that the system check would still be running and that there would be no way to get Lily yet. He went back to his own station and started the calculations needed for the date, then he searched their archives for a small fire in Hastings on the same date.

Armed with the latter information a few minutes later, he returned to the Chief's office. He knocked and went in, only to find that the Chief was not alone.

Or conscious.

_TBC._


	31. Chapter 31

Disclaimer: Foyle's War is a copyright product, characters used for entertainment only, no profit made, no infringement intended.

Author: hazeleyes57

Rating: U, K, nothing to alarm anyone.

A/N: We live in interesting and uncertain times, and I have a doozy of a year. I now know more than I ever wanted to about RSI, I apologise for the delay of this chapter and promise that if I ever write another fic, I'll finish it before I post any of it!

In the advent of the 'new' episodes of Foyle's War (April 2013), you may assume (correctly) that they play no part in this tale. Still a WIP.

What Will Be – Chapter 31

1950

_Ah, the 'other thing'._

Okay, call me curious, I've been called worse. I salved my conscience with the knowledge that he wouldn't remember.

"Kiss me goodbye."

Chris looked surprised, but not shocked. I'd bet the thought wasn't that far from his mind either.

"I don't think -"

I smirked.

"I agree, best not to."

I like to imagine he looked slightly disappointed.

"Kiss?"

"No, think_._ Best not to _think_."

"Ah."

_Oh, go on. You know you want to. You're just as curious as I am, to see if the old magic still works now that we're married to other people._

There was a silence that seemed to me to lay heavy upon us both. The moment of humour vanished, and I felt sad to really know that I would never see this wonderful man again. I wanted to tell him about Jonathan, but I knew in my heart of hearts that I would never mention the matter again. Mike was Jonathan's father, end of.

I grinned up at Chris, and made light of my request.

"Well done, you passed the test. Happily married men do not kiss other women. Now, hug me goodbye, and think fondly of me occasionally."

Chris smiled, and he was 'Foyle' to me again.

"I always have and so does Sam."

"No matter what happens now, I'll never be able to come back, so look after yourselves, won't you? And good luck with the new baby. All things being equal and avoiding all runaway cars, you'll be at all of their weddings."

His smile was subtle and a little poignant. He knew that this was really goodbye forever. He opened his arms and I went into them and we held each other for a long moment. He started to release me but I turned my head quickly and kissed him on the mouth. He barely hesitated before he pulled away and frowned.

"Lily, that was..."

I place a palm on his cheek; a caress, a salutation, a request for forgiveness.

"Necessary, my darling, and I'm so sorry. Don't worry, you'll only be out for a few minutes, but I have to go the rest of the way alone. Look on the bright side, we got our answer."

"_Out..?"_

Foyle's hand tightened painfully on my arm and his eyes widened in dismay.

"_Lily..."_

His knees started to buckle as the sedative in my lip gloss took effect. He struggled against the effects, but I stayed with him until I knew he was really out of it and then looked at his watch.

Ten minutes.

_Mmm, bit early but it was the best I could do. I hope he remains asleep for long enough._

I wiped the lip gloss off both of us – if I was going to be Retrieved, the last thing I wanted to do before I went to jail was knock Mike out for my few remaining minutes of freedom and Sam wouldn't thank her husband if she were out for the count for several minutes either, although I would have loved to have heard _that_ conversation when she awoke.

I stayed with Chris for a few more minutes, I straightened his lapels and retrieved his fallen hat, reluctant to leave him here alone, but then I had to get going. I walked out from under the trees as if I had every right to be there – only furtive people tend to get noticed – and went to sit down on one of the benches arranged along the pathway. I couldn't get my arm comfortable, and was dreading the trip back almost as much as the idea of not being Retrieved at all. With Foyle well away from the nimbus, he should forget everything that we had discussed as well as why there would be a bench on fire in the park at exactly six o'clock. Hopefully. That area is a bit grey; some people have been known to lose half a day's worth of memory within fifty yards of the displacement bubble, but I couldn't take the chance that Foyle would remember again.

As I waited for the last few minutes to tick by I kept thinking of all the better ways I could have sorted this whole thing, including posting Mike a letter at home, but what was done was done. I thought of my darling Mike, my beautiful son Jonathan, Grammas, my parents and the rest of my family and wondered if I'd done the right thing even though I was sort of convinced that I had.

Present Day.

It only took an instant for Mike to take in the Chief lying unconscious in his chair.

"What the hell is going on?"

The two people standing beside his oblivious boss looked at each other and the smaller shrugged minutely.

"Just how did _you_ think we were going to get Lily back? You know full well the absolute minimum number of people should be affected by our visit."

Mike glared in the direction of the slightly smaller figure on the right. It was difficult to look at either of the intruders; his eyes just kept sliding off them, as if his gaze was being diverted by some sort of stealth tech. It was irritating beyond belief.

"When you approached me and told me that I had to help you to save _my family,_ one, incidentally, that I didn't _have_ at the time, I took it on trust that you and The Powers That Be knew what you were doing and that no-one would get hurt."

The other darkly dressed figure shrugged. At a guess Mike would say he was male, but his voice was distorted.

"He's not hurt, he's just giving himself an alibi."

Mike glared again.

"Not funny."

The figure on the right changed the subject and although also disguised, the tone was one of someone familiar and comfortable with command.

"You've found her?"

"Yes, I have. But I have to ask; why did you need _me_ to help you? All this information is _and will be_ in our archives. You could have found her yourselves."

"We can't tell you, but we couldn't have got her back without your help."

Mike folded his arms, his suspicion growing.

"Why not?"

In the uneasy silence that followed, he realised what had bothered him about the comment '_we couldn't have got her back'_ – past tense, already happened.

"I'm not doing another thing until you tell me what's really going on. And don't give me that 'security need to know BS' either."

The silence stretched out.

Mike folded his arms, prepared to wait it out.

The one on the left caved in first.

"Only you can op-"

"_No!"_

'Left' was swiftly silenced by 'Right', who was obviously the one in charge.

But it was too late. Mike knew now that they needed him because only he could operate the Retrieval. _They didn't know how to use our tech._

If it hadn't have been so serious, he would have laughed at the irony of it.

_How arrogant of us to assume that we were the only ones travelling in time._

But privately Mike was overjoyed – Lily would be coming home!

"I think we've established that you need me, so I'm assuming that I'm safe - for the moment. What happens to Lily when I get her back?"

"Nothing. We have safeguards in place to cover our activity. Her transgression will be...forgotten. All will be as it was before."

Mike was warily pleased. At least that sounded like he would live to see another day, and it would be a definite bonus if Lily were not in prison for the rest of her life.

But on the other hand, 'safeguards in place' had the distinctly sinister overtone of the 'we have ways of making you forget' variety.

'Right' moved forward.

"Enough! Come on, we have to get to work. Move!"

Mike pointed over his shoulder.

"Do I have time to go to the bathroom?"

1950

It was with some considerable surprise that Christopher Foyle suddenly became aware that he was lying on damp ground under a translucent canopy of leaves. Even more oddly, he was tidily dressed, complete with his hat, and still – he checked his inner pocket - in possession of his wallet.

He wondered where he was as he climbed to his feet. Dusting himself down, he was aware that he felt bruised, predominantly down his right side.

_Right. The accident. Rose – thank God she was safe. Was that today? Am I concussed?_

Replacing his hat, he followed a trail of disturbed leaves back to a small path of pressed earth, which led him to the edge of the trees, whereupon he recognised Alexandra Park.

And the smell of wood smoke.

Foyle spied the source of the smell; someone, vandals he presumed, had set light to one of the park benches. Fortunately the damp wood had not encouraged the flames and the Fire Service were already in control of the situation. Unwilling in his present circumstances to be interviewed by the constable presently talking to one of the firemen, Foyle retreated back into the woods and worked his way back to the entrance of the park without being seen, then slipped quietly away.

He couldn't very well explain what he didn't understand himself. The last thing he remembered was talking to Sam about the accident.

_The accident! His daughter's excitement about the flying lady. The flying...redhead. Redhead. Lily?_

Noting the damage to his neighbour's steps over the road, Foyle entered his house with some relief and removed his hat, then his damp coat. He frowned. Why could he not remember?

Sam emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on the tea towel.

"Did you find her?"

Sam's question tied up so well with the thought in his head that he had to think for a long moment about what he had been asked.

"Find who?"

Sam's expression of concern warmed Foyle even as it worried him. He absently hung up his hat when Sam took his coat from him.

"You left here earlier this afternoon, saying you had an idea about the woman who saved you and Rose from injury in the accident. You were going to look for her. Did you find her?"

Had he? He wasn't sure.

"Umm, nunno, no. No. I didn't."

Sam's face fell.

"Oh, that's a shame. You seemed really quite excited about your idea, whatever it was."

Foyle wished he knew too. His mind felt clouded and muddy, but he had the nagging feeling that there was something important that he was missing; something that tickled the edge of his consciousness. The more he chased the thought, the further it slipped from his mind.

The touch of Sam's hand on his arm brought him back to the present and he could see she was worried but trying to hide it. He covered her hand with his own reassuringly.

"Not to worry; if it's important, it will come back to me. Now, if I'm not mistaken, it smells as if someone has been baking..?"

It was still a source of amusement to him that Sam tended to resort to baking to calm her nerves. Whatever disaster was looming could always be better dealt with armed with butterfly cakes, a fruit slice or some scones.

Sam allowed him to divert her attention for now, but she knew that whatever was disturbing her husband would return when he was ready. It always did.

"Just taken the first lot out, mind though, they're hot. Fresh tea in the pot, too. Just let me sort out your coat..."

Foyle headed for the kitchen and Sam brushed the damp from the coat with her hand, thinking to just knock the excess water off, but her hand came away dirty and she lifted the coat to see back of it. A couple of small leaves and a few smears of earth adhered to the dark material.

"What the Dickens..?"

Sam entered the kitchen to find her husband pouring tea into two cups.

"Darling, there's mud all over your coat. What happened while you were out?"

Foyle eyed the coat. 'All over' was an exaggeration, but Sam had a point. How to explain what he didn't understand himself?

"Mmm. Don't know. Will it come out?"

Sam sighed.

"I'm sure it will. Let it dry and I'll brush it out. Do you need anything in the pockets before I hang it up?"

Foyle shook his head.

"I don't think so."

Sam had been going through the pockets anyway and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She handed it to him as she passed by to lower the ceiling airer. She draped the coat over the wooden rails, hoisted the coat heavenwards and secured the pulley rope. With the warmth from the oven it would be dry in no time.

In the meantime, Foyle unfolded the paper and stared blankly at his own handwriting.

_The silver filigree box must stay in the family. Vitally important._

'Vitally' was underlined. But the hastily scrawled lines below drew his eyes almost before the first words had registered.

_Lily's gift of Rose spared me. Home, safe, happy._

Why, in God's name, did he have no memory of writing the note? He recognised his own hand without a doubt, but the words..?

"Anything important?"

Foyle looked up as Sam's hand rested on his shoulder. He folded the note again and shook his head.

"I have no idea."

TBC.


End file.
